


The Best-Laid Plans

by sabhnc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #ReallyNed?, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Original Character, Consensual Sex, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Hot Dornish Tempers, M/M, Multi, Original Sword of Morning, Period Typical Age-Gaps, Promiscuous Dornish and Reachmen, consensual polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabhnc/pseuds/sabhnc
Summary: Everyone's planning is ruined when Jaime Lannister (with the help of his brother Tyrion) writes a tell-all about his time serving Aerys and is banished, fleeing to Essos. When news regarding Daenerys' wedding with Khal Drogo comes a few weeks early to King's Landing, another set of plans are ruined. Immediately suspecting the Dornish of being involved in some plot, King Robert and Lord Jon Arryn demand they send their prince to the capitol. To balance his enemies presence, King Robert demands his old friend, Eddard Stark to come as well. With the Dornish comes Clarissa Sand, bastard daughter of Ashara Dayne and Eddard Stark, the newest Sword of Morning. Accompanying the Northmen is Lyarra Snow, his other bastard daughter. What happens to the Mockingbird's plans as snakes and wolves arrive far ahead of schedule?





	1. Petyr I

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is the shortest one. They get progressively longer. Like with the actual ASOIAF books, each chapter has a different perspective than the last. Language and sexual content is not more graphic or plentiful than in the original material.  
> Please let me know what you think in the comments! This is my first time publishing an ASOIAF fic. To those reading my Harry Potter fanfic, Last Hope of the Celts, I have not set it aside and will continue to update that story every Monday or Tuesday.

**The Mockingbird**

“Fucking dragonspawn.” The king was going on another rant about the Targaryens. Hardly surprising. What was surprising was that this was happening in a small council meeting, which the king rarely attended. “How the hell did they get a dowry for this thing?”

The younger Targaryen, Daenerys, had recently been wed to a Dothraki Khal. In exchange for his men helping invade Westeros. It was a legitimate problem.

“And where the fuck are they getting ships from? Pentos doesn’t have a damn navy!”

“Actually, your grace, they have a small one.” That was Lord Stannis Baratheon. Reject of Storm’s End, brother of the King, assigned to Dragonstone instead. Factual, dull, and intransigent as ever. Useful if one wanted to create chaos within House Baratheon. Which the Mockingbird did, just not yet. “You are right, however, it is too small to move such a large khalasaar.”

“Thank you for the update,  _ brother _ ,” the King spat. Stannis clenched his teeth, his usual response to being in court. “Varys! Where are they getting the ships?”

“They do not appear to be leaving just yet,” the spider said. “Although there were a few merchant ships from House Yronwood and from House Wyl in Pentos when the marriage occurred.”

“Of course it’s the fucking Dornish! Worthless dragon-lovers! I should have killed them all rather than sign that damn treaty.”

“Your grace, perhaps we might request their presence in the capitol? They will hardly start a war with Prince Doran in our clutches.” Lord Jon Arryn, Hand to the King, had finally weighed in, even as the Mockingbird swore under his breath. This would ruin his plans. If the Dornish were here, they would be blamed. He wanted wolves and lions to fight, not stags and spears. On the other hand, if things were sped up, could he start a three-way war? Could this be his chance? He’d have Lysa slip the tears in tonight.

“Lord Baelish!”

“Hm? Yes your grace?” the Mockingbird responded. He’d gotten lost in his head.

“If we’re going to bring the Dornish here, we’ll need more allies too. Get Ned down here, make sure his wife doesn’t complain too much. I trust your. . .  _ history _ with her will help.” The King had a nasty smile on his face. The Mockingbird hated this. Especially regarding Cat. Still, he hid his emotions, processing this new addition to his plans. The falcon no longer needed to die for his plans to work. Perfect.

“Of course, your grace. I’ll send word immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back! Sorry I was gone for so long, really don't have an excuse. I'm going to start by updating the chapters posted already, but there should be some new content out shortly.  
> Thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoy!


	2. Clarissa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Clarissa Sand, daughter of Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne, and many other things besides, as she is forced into the game.

**The Bastard Sword**

“Again!” Lady Clarissa Sand, daughter of Ashara Dayne, heir of Starfall, the Sword of Morning, suppressed a groan and bent her legs. Balancing on one foot, she held Dawn in a single hand, her left leg poised in the air behind her. She swept out with Dawn towards an invisible foe and kicked back with her right leg. It extended quickly, giving her force enough to fly up in the air. She tucked her arm in and flipped in the air, extending her left leg slightly as she landed with a slight wobble, Dawn now held in her left hand.

“Good,” Syrio Forel, former First Sword of Braavos, and her instructor, said. “But not perfect. Again.” Clarissa shifted again, preparing to repeat the movement. When she swept out with Dawn, she heard a door open and her aunt, Allyria, call out, “Clarissa?” Biting on her lip, Clarissa ignored her aunt for a second, focusing on her work. Her right leg kicked up, then bent in as she twirled. This time she tossed Dawn into the air, the greatsword flying above her. She landed perfectly on her left foot. As the sword fell, she caught the handle in her left hand and within a millisecond had it in the proper guard. Syrio Forel smiled.

“Well done,” he said. “You found the answer.” Clarissa smiled, but stayed in the stance. She’d learned long ago to wait for Syrio to dismiss her, lest he have something else planned. As he did in this case, poking and prodding her with a stick, testing her balance, and how long she could hold a greatsword in one hand. Satisfied, he signaled for her to relax. She did, partially, stepping out of the stance, but her hand never left her greatsword.

Syrio lunged out, his stick suddenly replaced by his rapier, the small metal sword nicking Clarissa’s shirt as she scrambled back, Dawn in both hands as her feet found the proper footwork. Holding the sword in a guard over her right shoulder, she moved the blade back and forth quickly as Syrio advanced, knocking each of his rapid stabs away. He sliced towards her left flank and she shifted back with her left foot, her guard moving to her side as she parried his blade. His blade slide down hers, and she flicked down with the tip of her sword, trying to hit his hand and disarm him. He moved first, slipping the blade under hers. She pivoted the sword right, flicking down. The edge of his blade hit the flat of hers, and she stepped into the now protected zone of his left. Right hand leaving her blade, Clarissa lashed out with her hand, but Syrio ducked, headbutting her chest. Clarissa was forced back as Syrio lunged again. She was forced to play his game, limiting her swordwork as his rapid-fire cuts and stabs were parried off of a single pivot-point. Finally, she moved, feinting a left lunge. Syrio moved quickly, but Clarissa moved to her right as well, holding Dawn out with one hand, the point under her teacher’s neck. Syrio laughed.

“Well done Clarissa,” he said. “You may be a true threat to the Braavosi now.” Clarissa smiled, but didn’t fall for his trick. His sword swept up, trying to force hers aside. Her muscles flexed, holding the sword in place as she twisted the left edge down. It hit his sword’s edge, knocking it to the ground. “Yes,” he said. “A true threat now.” Clarissa, still smiling, sheathed Dawn. The ancestral greatsword fit perfectly onto her side, hanging just off the ground as she moved towards her aunt.

“Sorry, Aunt Allyria. What is it?” Allyria shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Always with the practice,” she admonished. “Though it is your mother’s and my sessions that will help you with this.” Clarissa’s brow furrowed as she looked down at her aunt. It was hard not to. Allyria was of a normal size for Dornish women, 5’4” or so, with noticeable curves. Clarissa, at sixteen, was not of such a build. She had curves, and noticeable ones too. Her breasts were often bound when she practiced, or held in a firmer set of small clothes so they wouldn’t keep bouncing around. Her ass had been on the receiving end of many “compliments,” as some illiterate (sometimes noble)men called them. Those men usually wound up with severe bruising. But rather than a smaller height and frame, Clarissa was undoubtedly large. She stood tall at nearly six foot. The muscles in her arms, back, abs, and legs were well-developed. Dawn was always at her side. Hardly the courtly image of a lady. Still she was accepted and even admired in the Dornish court, largely because of the mark on her wrist. It had been there since she was born, the first sign that her uncle would not survive the Usurper’s rebellion. The mark of Sunrise, emblazoned on the inner flesh of her right wrist. The mark of the Sword of Morning.

“Where am I going?”

“The Usurper has requested the Prince’s presence in King’s Landing.”

“What? He can’t--”

“Relax, Clarissa. The Usurper’s aide failed to clarify  _ which _ prince. Doran will not be forced from the Water Gardens. Prince Oberyn will lead the delegation to King’s Landing.” Clarissa laughed, a brilliant sound rippling across Starfall.

“King’s Landing won’t know what hit it,” she said, still chuckling.

“He has requested your presence in the party, officially as the heir of Starfall.”

“I still don’t understand how that’s me and not you.” Allyria rolled her eyes.

“Doran legitimized you for inheritance after Edric died. You may be stuck with the name Sand so long as the Usurper reigns, but you  _ will _ rule here after your mother.” Clarissa nodded, face twisting in a grimace as she remembered Edric’s death. It had not been pleasant, nor quick. He had been captured by one of the pretender vultures two years ago. Clarissa had led the party looking for him. They had made short work of the bandits, but still took too long. He bled out, still attached to the chains in his cell. The wounds on him, the torture implements on the ground still gave Clarissa nightmares. She shook her head, trying to clear the images.

“When do I join him?”

“Their party is coming by Starfall around midday, you’ll join the rest then. They’ll stop for meal and to rest their horses before heading out. Clarissa nodded.

“I’d better pack and bathe in that case.”

“Yes. Especially the latter,” Allyria said, holding her nose shut with a chuckle. “Good as you are, your sweat still stinks, just like the rest of us.” Clarissa laughed again.

“Good, I need something to keep me humble,” she said, heading out of the sandy courtyard and inside, seeking out a bath.


	3. Lyarra I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Lyarra Snow, Ned Stark's other deadly & beautiful bastard

**The White Wolf**

Lyarra Snow was at the archery range, as she often was. Dressed in a simple grey dress, she shot at a target fifty yards away. Theon Greyjoy stood next to her, aiming at another target fifty yards away. Men-at-arms, servants, and even smallfolk from Wintertown were gathered behind them, placing bets and watching the two teenagers.

“Standard rules!” Rodrik Cassel, the weapons master at Winterfell, said. “Five arrows each, most points wins. If there’s a tie, whoever finishes first wins.”

“Ready to be left in the dust Snow?” Theon taunted. Lyarra laughed, a light noise that carried across the winds.

“Is that the best you can do Greyjoy? You need to work on your insults almost as much as your archery.” Theon rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself? Your spend more time with your harp than out here these days. You know those strings don’t shoot arrows.” Lyarra smiled, the skin around her violet eyes crinkling slightly.

“Just because I’m not here when you are doesn’t mean I’m not out here.”

“Can you two stop flirting and shoot!” Arya Stark shouted out. Lyarra’s favorite sibling, although not in this moment. Lyarra’s pale skin blushed a deep red as Theon laughed.

“Gladly,” he said. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it and drawing, carefully aiming at the target far away. Lyarra shook her head, clearing the embarrassment from her mind and the blush from her cheeks. As the blush faded and her mind focused, the paleness of her skin began to stand out more. It was almost an ethereal look, a pale milkiness that refused to change, no matter how much or how little sun there was. She knocked her arrow, drew, and aimed. Taking a deep breath as she drew, she let it out as she loosed her arrow. The arrow flew across the field, landing into the center of the target as their audience strained their eyes to see where it went. Theon shot as well, his arrow landing near the center. Lyarra knocked her next arrow, drew the bow, and, with an exhaling breath, let the arrow fly. She repeated the action, the arrows flying rapidly as they moved across the field, each striking the target. Theon moved slower, his arrows finding their marks as well. When both were done, Rodrik Cassel gave the signal, and two of his men-at-arms ran out, bringing the targets up to the shooting line. Theon had done well, four arrows hitting the inner bullseye, one the outer bullseye. Lyarra had done better. Five arrows in the inner bullseye. The audience laughed and cheered as money changed hands.

“Another win for the great Lyarra Snow!” Theon declared, holding her arm up as Lyarra blushed again. “I’ll get you next time,” he whispered before slapping her on the back and walking off.

“You did it!” Arya yelled as she tackled her sister in the legs, nearly bowling her over. Lyarra quickly unstrung her bow and knelt down, hugging the tinny wolf, rubbing her hair and smiling.

“Yes, I did, little wolf,” she said, smiling as she ruffled Arya’s hair. “Tell me, how’s Nymeria doing?”

“She’s doing well!” Arya exclaimed, excited about the direwolf pup. They all were. Lyarra had found them on a hunt, five direwolf pups, and two white ones. The second white pup had caused a rather awkward encounter between her father and his wife. “How’s Ghost and her sister?”

“They’re good!” Lyarra said, moving to walk alongside her sister. “They’re both growing pretty fast, although the Ghost is growing faster.”

“When do you think we’ll meet our other sister?” Arya asked.

“I don’t know,” Lyarra said. She was still deeply confused about this series of events. Her violet eyes had long made her think Ashara Dayne was her mother, but apparently she wasn’t. Her father had sired a  _ different _ child on her, at the Tourney of Harrenhal, before he and Lady Stark had been married. But who else had purple eyes? Lyarra shrugged, turning back to the conversation at hand.

“I hope it’s soon,” Arya said. “Maybe she’ll be in King’s Landing!” Lyarra looked down at her sister.

“How would that help?” she asked.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you! Dad got a raven from the king today. We’re going south, you, me, and Sansa. With dad!”

“Why?” Arya shrugged.

“I dunno. Think we’ll get to watch the Kingsguard train? Steal their moves like we do with Robb and Theon?” Lyarra smiled and bent down to ruffle Arya’s hair again.

“I’m sure of it.”


	4. Clarissa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dornish Party heads north, and meets a few complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out more about Clarissa's past, friends and family! A hint towards earning that Explicit rating in chapters to come

**Darkness finds its Dawn**

“Okay, but why  _ him _ ?” Clarissa asked

“Well, with any luck, he’ll cause some incident,” Oberyn replied, smirking as he reached over to take some of the curry. “And we can leave him behind in King’s Landing.” Clarissa rolled her eyes.

“So, you plan to take the Darkstar, in the hopes that he causes a major scandal, and we can ditch him in King’s Landing?” Oberyn paused, looking as if in thought.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” he said. Clarissa laughed.

“Remind me, why did Doran think  _ you _ should lead this group?”

“I think it was mostly just to tweak the Usurper’s nose. Or maybe Arryn’s beak, if the Usurper is as drunk as they say.” Clarissa rolled her eyes again as Oberyn laughed at his own joke, turning back to the meal. The royal party sent to King’s Landing was a relatively small one. For a royal party, anyways. It was still a large group, including a few people Clarissa would have preferred to avoid. None were quite as bad as the Darkstar, Ser Gerold Dayne. Whoever had knighted him needed to be checked by a maester. The man had been trying to kill Clarissa since she was born. He had always wanted to be the Sword of Morning, and she had stolen it from him. At least, in his eyes.

“Who else is joining us?”

“Both of the Blackmont children,” Ser Daemon Sand replied.

“And the Manwoody party,” Ser Deziel Dalt added.

“Okay,” Clarissa said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Just two people I need to avoid, that’s better than it could be.”

“Who else do you have to avoid?” Ser Daemon asked. Oberyn laughed.

“My daughter, Obara.”

“Why do you have to avoid Obara, Clarissa?” Ser Daemon asked, his voice teasing. Clarissa turned a dark shade of red and looked down at her food, refusing to answer. “Clarissa?”

“If you don’t tell them, I will,” Oberyn said with a knowing grin. “In detail.”

“Okay! Fine!” Clarissa said, her head poking back up. “I had a crush on her when I was like, ten!”

“Eight,” Oberyn interjected.

“And?” Daemon asked. Clarissa’s fading blush came back in full force and she looked away.

“She thought the way to Obara’s heart would sparring,” Oberyn said with a laugh. “Damn near killed herself trying to fight with live steel.”

“How?”

“I tried to swing a greatsword,” Clarissa said sheepishly. “It was too heavy. Almost took my leg off when it slipped.” Ser Daemon, Ser Deziel, and a few others laughed, as did Clarissa after a while. As they quieted down, Clarissa sought revenge. Not against Oberyn, he was shameless. And heading back to the table with his daughters. “So, Daemon,” she said, leaning over the table. “How are things at the Old Palace these days? I heard Arianne--” Ser Deziel, one of her oldest friends, quickly slapped his hand over her mouth, cutting her off. Clarissa turned and glared at him.

“We don’t need him destroying the table already,” Ser Deziel said. “Save it for the jousts.”

“Jousts?”

“Yes,” Ser Diron Sand, one of House Martell’s household knights, said. “The king’s throwing a tourney.”

“Because his least favorite nobles are coming to town?” Diron shrugged.

“From what I hear, he’ll use any excuse to go hunting, whoring, or have a tourney.” Clarissa rolled her eyes.

“No wonder the Iron Bank is being strange,” Clarissa said.

“They are?” Ser Deziel asked.

“Yeah,” Clarissa said, taking another bit of the lamb. “I tried to get a loan for a few more merchant ships. Profit practically guaranteed. Kinda thing they’re normally all over. But instead of trying to get me to take out a larger loan, the rep tried to convince me to expand slower, only build a couple ships.” Everyone around her widened their eyes.

“Sweet seven,” Ser Symon Santagar said. “Just how much debt is the crown in to affect the Iron Bank?”

“No idea,” Clarissa said. “Maybe one of Oberyn’s spies has some idea.”

“I don’t envy his heir,” Ser Deziel said, taking a large drink of Dornish wine. “Then again,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The more trouble there is in King’s Landing, the less they bother us.” A chorus of agreement passed around the table. Three decades of unhappy interference under Aerys and the Usurper (preceded by two of benign neglect from Aegon V) had left Dorne feeling it was better off by itself.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The group left Starfall quickly after their meal was done. Clarissa packed light, as she always did. One of the advantages of Dornish clothing--they didn’t take up much room.

She had successfully hid towards the back of the group when they passed High Hermitage and Ser Gerold had joined them. She’d managed to avoid him again when they paused outside Blackmont, where he had been focused on creepily hitting on the Blackmont girls. Clarissa had welcomed Jynessa to the back with a knowing smile.

“Can you kill him?” Jynessa had asked.

“I  _ can _ ,” Clarissa had replied. “But until I have proof of something illegal, I’m not allowed to.” Jynessa had sighed dramatically and Clarissa laughed as the group rode on.

Avoiding both Obara and the Darkstar had become impossible in Kingsgrave. There had been two main tables for the party, and one of them took each. Those two hated each other almost as much as Clarissa and the Darkstar. He thought Obara had turned Arianne Martell, the Crown Princess, against him. Obara just thought he was a dick (she was right). With a loud sigh, Clarissa decided to sit at the same table as Obara. She sat next to Jynessa, who had come to Kingsgrave with her mother and brother to see them off, and across from Ser Deziel, at the opposite end from Obara.

“Enjoy this,” Ser Deziel said teasingly. “It’s the last time we’ll have food with flavor.”

“Oh come on,” Jynessa said. “Surely the royal table has some decent seasonings.” Ser Deziel shook his head and laughed.

“Normally it has a little,” he said. “But I just heard the king is bringing down some Northmen as well. Knowing him, it’ll be seasoned to their tastes.”

“So, with ice,” Clarissa said.

“Northern food’s not actually that bad,” Nymeria interjected. Clarissa almost jumped, looking behind her to see the gorgeous woman. Nymeria’s hair was even darker than hers, braided beautifully with red-gold wire interwoven. It hung over her delicate olive skin. Looking up, Clarissa saw her luscious lips, faintly painted to make them even redder, turned up in her classic smile, knowing and teasing, hinting at what might come. Or who. Clarissa cleared her throat and shook her head, forcing herself back to the conversation. Nymeria smirked at her.

“As I was saying,” Nymeria continued, squeezing onto the bench next to Clarissa. “Northern food is good, in the North. There they use wild berries and fresh game. The problem is that in King’s Landing they’re lazy, so the game is two or three days old, and the berries are dried.”

“How do you know so much about the North’s food?” Ser Daemon asked, eyebrow raised. Nymeria grinned darkly.

“I spent a few moons in the Neck a couple years ago,” she said, dark eyes gleaming. “Learning about some of their more. . . interesting plants.” Clarissa laughed, smiling widely.

“I swear, you and your sisters could start up a new Citadel,” she said. “You and Tyene have poisons down pat, Elia’s one hell of a smith, Sarella knows history like no one else I’ve seen, you all speak like, thirty languages--”

“And what would I teach?” a voice from behind her asked. Clarissa swallowed and closed her eyes, forcing her brain to think of something. She opened them and turned her head around, towards where Obara now stood, behind her.

“Warfare, of course,” Clarissa said with a smile. “Gods know you’ve been studying that for a while.” Obara smiled.

“That I have. I suppose one of the first lessons I’d have to teach would be how eight-year-olds shouldn’t use greatswords.” Clarissa rolled her eyes, even as the table laughed.

“I was fine,” she said.

“The sword was stuck in your shin,” Nymeria threw in.

“Okay, so I wasn’t  _ fine _ , but hey! I’m the Sword of Morning now!”

“You still could’ve done that without almost dying,” Obara said.

“Not really, the trials are--”

“Fine, without almost dying  _ that time. _ ” Clarissa took in a breath, about to argue. She let it go.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

“Anyways, I came over to you for a reason.”

“Not just to tease me?”

“Mostly for that,” Obara said with a smirk. “But I’m also bored. Wanna spar?” Clarissa smiled, and Nymeria looked at them with a smirk.

“Are you sparring or  _ sparring _ ?” she asked teasingly. Clarissa rolled her eyes yet again, used to Nymeria’s antics by now. Obara glared at her sister.

“I’ll be sparring,” Obara said. “I’ll leave the  _ sparring _ to you.” Nymeria smiled.

“Thank you sister. We might finally exhaust the Sword of Morning’s endurance.” Clarissa blushed, her light skin turning a deep scarlet. She stood up quickly.

“Are we fighting or not?” she asked Obara, heading out the door. She bowed to Lord Manwoody, who waved her and Obara away. The two walked out the door and into the courtyard. There was a dirt sparring square, which the two quickly moved to. Both began to stretch, and Clarissa unsheathed Dawn, warming up.

“I see you can actually hold it now,” Obara said teasingly. Clarissa rolled her eyes and laughed. She continued warming up without a response.

“She can,” a cold voice behind them said. Clarissa turned, lilac eyes darker than her own. “Not that she deserves to.” Clarissa rolled her eyes at the silver-haired man walking towards them.

“Hello Gerold,” she said with a false smile. “What’ll it be today? Trying to steal my sword, or yelling at Obara because the Crown Princess has decent taste?” The Darkstar, Ser Gerold Dayne, glared at her. He drew his sword and pointed it at Clarissa.

“We’re sparring,” he said. He grabbed a shield and tested his sword’s edge.

“Are we sparring or dueling?” Clarissa asked. “Cause last time you tried to kill me, and I’d like to know the rules beforehand.” Ser Gerold growled and moved towards her. Obara went for her spear, but Clarissa waved her hand.

“I’ll handle him,” Clarissa said, smirking at Ser Gerold. “Just let the people inside know, they might want to see this.” Obara smiled and ran towards the door to the feast hall. Ser Gerold smiled, his eyes betraying his rage and hunger. He wore full armor, covering his chest, legs, and arms. He wore a helmet as well, silver hair with his infamous dark streak barely visible from beneath it. He swung his sword, getting warmed up. Clarissa bent her knees and raised Dawn over her head. Ser Gerold adopted his own stance. The two were of near-equal height, with Ser Gerold just a bit taller. He moved first, charging at Clarissa. Clarissa retreated, her sword unmoving as she did. When his struck out, a harsh cut to her head, she blocked it easily, the tip of her sword flickering down and over as the guard moved higher. His momentum carried his blade off of hers. Clarissa struck back, stepping forward as her blade sliced towards his right shoulder, guard moving down as it did, giving her extra leverage. Ser Gerold dodged just in time, stepping and leaning back. Clarissa smiled and twirled Dawn in one hand.

“What the hell?!” Ser Symon exclaimed, having just entered the courtyard. Ser Deziel, Ser Daemon, Lord Manwoody, and Prince Oberyn were with him, as was Obara. Clarissa looked over at them, and the Darkstar lunged forward, stabbing towards her chest. Clarissa took a half-step back, Dawn coming down to knock his blade aside. She smiled at moved into her high guard again. Ser Gerold growled, then charged again, his swings fast and hard. Her blade flickered from above her blocking the first two. He sliced upwards on the third, and she moved the whole sword down, into a low right guard, then a low left, blocking his blows. Her blade flickered across his body as she retreated neatly, blocking each of his blows. Her arms never buckled as she smiled and the crowd watch. Ser Gerold lunged and she stopped, stepping to the side as the blade went past her. As Ser Gerold recovered, Clarissa twirled Dawn in her right hand again, then charged.

Her blade swung down from high guard, and his shield caught it. She flicked the blade in a small semi-circle, passing over and under his shield, her blow catching him in the middle, his armor absorbing the blow as he was forced back. Clarissa grinned and moved forwards. Her attacks were rapid-fire, and Ser Gerold struggled to keep up, his blade and shield moving jerkily as he retreated across the square. Most of her attacks were small cuts, pressure coming from the pull of her hands in opposite directions. As Ser Gerold stumbled in his retreat, she sliced down, moving her arms as well. Ser Gerold moved his shield into the way, but Clarissa had feinted. Her arms twisted, moving the blade around his shield, and sliced upwards, into his sword arm. Ser Gerold yelled and charged at her, not swinging but seeking to hit her with his body weight. Clarissa lowered herself on one foot as he neared she swept out and pressed up. Ser Gerold parried her attack, but Clarissa kept the blade in hand as she moved up. She tossed it into the air as she flipped. Ser Gerold reached up to attack her and narrowly missed. She landed on her left foot with her sword in hand. Ser Gerold kept running, and Clarissa moved quickly. She leapt forward, tucking herself into a roll, her sword slicing along the Darkstar’s calf. He stumbled, and Clarissa stopped, pivoting as her left hand lashed out, her wrist slamming into his covered hamstring. Both legs hit, the Darkstar fell, catching himself with his shield, on hands and knees. Clarissa stood, Dawn extended, hovering just above Ser Gerold’s neck.

“Yield.” Ser Gerold growled and struck with his left foot. Clarissa pulled her left leg up, slamming down onto Ser Gerold’s calf as he tried to pull his leg back in. The Darkstar cried out in pain, and Dawn moved slightly closer, resting on his neck.

“Yield,” Clarissa said again. He tried to attack with his right foot, but Clarissa kicked it, her full weight briefly on Ser Gerold’s left leg, causing another cry of pain.

“Fine!” he said, eyes flashing in anger. “I yield.”

“Good,” Clarissa said, removing Dawn from his neck and stepping off his leg. Those from the feast cheered and applauded. Ser Gerold was not well liked, and though few personally knew Clarissa Dayne, she had a good reputation. In Dorne at least. Fairly honorable, good fighter, daring and brave. The multi-gender licentiousness damned her in the eyes of most northerners though.

“Now, you never told me if this was a sparring session or a duel,” she said teasingly, a small smirk on her face. “Which was it?” The Darkstar stood, eyes glaring with a potent fire. Taking off his helmet, he walked towards her, ignoring the pain in his leg. He placed his hand out, and Clarissa took it. She shook his hand, and then felt a deep pain in her side. She winced, feeling the dagger turn.

“A duel,” he whispered, and pulled out the dagger. She bit down a cry of pain, her right hand gripping Dawn. He smiled at her. No one had seen the bleeding wound yet, although a few looked concerned at her grimace. “Goodbye cousin,” he said softly.

“Goodbye Gerold,” Clarissa said in a pleased tone. Finally, she had proof. His hot-blooded and entitled nature had finally done him in. He moved to step back, but Clarissa gripped his right hand and pulled him in, letting go as she slammed her head into his.  _ Fuck that hurt,  _ Clarissa thought as her cousin stumbled back. Her right hand reached out blindly, gripping Dawn as the others gasped.

“What the hell?!” one of the nobles exclaimed.

“Look!” another yelled. “He stabbed her!” Ser Gerold scrambled, standing back up and grabbing his shield. He moved quickly, sprinting away. Clarissa, still bleeding, ran after him, Dawn in her hands. The courtyard was in chaos. Ser Gerold ran through a set of double-doors and Clarissa followed. He moved quickly, but she was faster. She always had been, especially when he was wearing armor.

She caught up to him as he was about to turn a corner. Clarissa leapt and turned, her shoulder hitting his back, throwing him into a wall. He turned, striking at her with his dagger. She leaned back and used the distance to slam into his head again. He stabbed again, the dagger finding her gut. Clarissa clenched her teeth. Her left hand slammed down onto his elbow, forcing his hand to release the dagger. Her right hand moved up, knocking his head back as it came into contact with Dawn’s pommel. Clarissa back up quickly and held her arm out, pointing Dawn at him. The point just below his neck, her left hand covering the larger wound.

“Surrender,” she said, panting. “I have no desire to be a kinslayer.” Ser Gerold smiled darkly, leaning forward. She stepped back, keeping him from running into her blade.

“Why would I?” he asked, slowly walking towards her. She clenched her teeth, slowly moving back. She could hear footfalls, running towards her, following the hall.  _ Just a little longer _ , she thought. “You already gave yourself away.  _ Kinslayer _ ,” he mocked. “So much effort to avoid a title.” He laughed, then lunged towards her. Clarissa stepped back quickly, stumbling over a rug. Her vision was starting to go fuzzy. Ser Gerold laughed and ran. Clarissa dropped Dawn and yanked the dagger from her gut, throwing it quickly. The dagger nicked him, leaving a small cut. He turned and laughed. A dagger flew from the back of the hall. Clarissa heard the wind whistle as the blade passed her. It landed in Ser Gerold’s eye. He fell back, collapsing against the wall. Clarissa stumbled, hands trying to stop the bleeding. She felt an arm moving around her, under her right arm.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” the person beside her said.  _ Nymeria, _ she thought. Another arm moved in from her left. Clarissa looked over, and saw Obara. The two helped lift her up.

“Gods,” Clarissa said through clenched teeth. “When did you get this strong?” Nymeria let out a forced laugh.

“You’re not as heavy as everyone claims,” Nymeria said. “I heard from some merchant in Planky Town that you’d grown as wide as the Mountain, and twice as tall.” Clarissa laughed, then groaned as the movement pulled at her wounds.

“That’d be ironic,” she said. Obara snorted.

“Quite,” she said. “Greatest Dornish fighter, same size and shape as Tywin’s monster?” Clarissa laughed again, before stopping, turning her head towards Obara.

“Wait, what’d you call me?” Obara kept looking forward.

“We’ll take her from here,” a voice said. Two larger arms replaced the Sand Snakes, and a third lifted her feet. She was placed on a bed, a maester standing to her left, someone else beside him.

“The hell, Clarissa?” Oberyn asked.  _ Ah, that makes sense, _ Clarissa though.  _ He does have healing link _ . “I haven’t seen you looking this bad since the damn trials.” Clarissa laughed again, only to be cut off as a cough ripped through her. She leaned back onto the bed.

“Come on Oberyn,” she said. “My trial injuries were far worse.”

“That they were,” Oberyn said with a grim smile. “How you survived, I have no idea.” Clarissa shrugged, rolling her shoulders.

“Someone hand me Dawn,” she said.

“No,” the master said firmly. “You can’t move. These wounds are too serious.”

“Get me Dawn,” she growled, forcing herself to sit up. She grabbed the maester’s chain, yanking him closer. “If you want me to live, get. Me. Dawn.” She let go, collapsing onto the bed. She heard feet scampering off, and forced herself to stay awake. She coughed again, and hacked, spitting up blood into her handkerchief. “Gross,” she commented, putting it away.

Clarissa heard rapid footsteps again, moving back into the room.

“Here,” Nymeria said, holding the handle out to Clarissa.

“Thank you,” Clarissa said softly. She took the handle lifting the sword up. She placed it over herself, pommel under her neck, point aiming towards her feet. She closed her eyes, her mind reaching out towards the sword. “ Bródenmæl sylfum  ġerihte , edcwicast úre  inþínen,” she said in a soft chant. She repeated the words, growing louder. She said them again, louder as an aura of light began to surround her. She repeated them again and again, growing louder each time as she became covered in light the same pale color as Dawn’s blade. After the ninth time, the light faded, soaking back into Clarissa and Dawn. Clarissa let out a loud sigh, her head falling back, collapsing onto the pillow. The maester moved, a paste in his hands.

“Good,” he said. “Now that the heathen mysticism is over, I can do my--What?!” He stared down, at pale pink skin. Raw, but there. “Where’d the wounds go?” Clarissa let out a tired laugh.

“Why’d you think I wanted Dawn?” she asked, placing the sword to her side. “I may be a heathen, tree-worshiping, sand and rock-loving, uncultured, unladylike dornishwoman with the blood of Northern savages, but I do know what I’m doing. Now leave.” The maester nodded and scurried away.

“That would explain how you survived the trials,” Oberyn said. Clarissa sighed.

“Yes and no. It’s complicated, and I don’t really understand it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I have to focus, so it can’t be in battle. Or when my brain is running every which-way. And it only heals me. And it leaves me exhausted for quite a while.” She grimaced. “Don’t ask me why.” Oberyn shrugged and sat down in a chair next to her bed.

“I’ve seen Shadowbinders in Asshai,” he said. “And the warlocks of Qarth. This is much more believable.” He looked over, where his daughter Nymeria was standing. She looked at him, then Obara. They both nodded. “I’ll let myself out then,” he said, standing.

“I’ll be able to ride tomorrow,” Clarissa said. Oberyn looked down at her, nodded, then shrugged. He and Obara walked out.

“Oh, Clarissa, Nymeria,” he said, one foot out the door, an evil grin on his face. “Try not to stay up  _ too _ late. We do leave at dawn.” He and Obara laughed as Clarissa blushed and Nymeria smirked.

“Hey,” Nymeria said, sitting down on Clarissa’s bed. “Are you really okay to ride tomorrow?” Clarissa nodded, shoving Dawn off the bed. She scooted over, pulling Nymeria with her, who yelped.

“I’ll be fine,” Clarissa said with a smile. “Just tired.” Nymeria nodded. Clarissa pulled at her dress. “Come on Nym,” she said. “I’m not  _ too _ tired.” Nymeria laughed and lay down next to Clarissa, leaning on her side, body touching Clarissa’s.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Nymeria said softly, hand lacing through Clarissa’s dark Rhoynish curls.

“Thanks for the dagger,” Clarissa said, her arm slipping under Nymeria’s shoulder. “He’d probably have gotten away otherwise.”

“Or killed you,” Nymeria said softly.

“Eh,” Clarissa said, shrugging. Nymeria pushed Clarissa’s head up, hand laced into her hair.

“Hey,” she said, voice somewhat harsh. “You living matters more than him dying. You’re the gods-damned Sword of Morning, your life matters, okay?” Clarissa laughed, smiling and wrapping her arms around Nymeria, pulling her on top of herself.

“I know,” Clarissa said, her lilac eyes seeming to sparkle. “Still, it feels good to get justice for Edric and Aleric.” Nymeria smiled, and kissed Clarissa on the forehead. Clarissa smiled, then leaned up, kissing Nymeria on the lips. Nymeria responded in kind, opening her mouth slightly. She bit down lightly on Clarissa’s lower lip as Clarissa’s muscled arms tightened around her, holding her closer. Her body shimmied against Clarissa’s, drawing a light moan from the Sword of Morning. Clarissa leaned up to deepen their kiss. Nymeria accepted it, swirling her tongue into Clarissa’s mouth, teasing her hands down Clarissa’s side, before pushing away. Clarissa looked up and saw her smirk.

“Time for you to get some rest,” Nymeria said as she stood up and straightened her dress. Clarissa groaned.

“Tease.”

“Proudly,” Nymeria said with another smirk. She leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clarissa’s lips. “We can continue this in Nightsong tomorrow night,” she said. Her dark brown eyes gleamed in the light. “We’ll have to sleep two to a room there anyways.” Clarissa smiled, her lilac eyes edging towards violet as lust overtook them.

“I doubt we’ll be sleeping much,” she said.

“You do have quite a bit of endurance,” Nymeria conceded. “I look forward to exhausting it.” With a smirk and a flirtatious wink, Nymeria walked out of Clarissa’s room, closing the door as she went. With another groan and some grumbling about teasing Sand Snakes, Clarissa blew out her candles and went to sleep.


	5. Lyarra II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern group continues down the Kingsroad and Lyarra finds sneaky ways to avoid her suitors--most of them, at least

**The Hapless Wolf**

Greywater Watch had been a nice break from the bedrolls and tents, but they were back to the same tonight. Not that Lyarra particularly minded, she’d gotten used to sleeping outdoors at a young age, as a way to avoid Lady Stark for even longer. That, and sleeping in the Godswood was extremely calming. There was something sacred there, regardless of what the septa said.

Arya had also taken well to the sleeping conditions, which was unsurprising. The wild little wolf had always enjoyed riding hard, climbing trees, sprinting through the forest, and swordplay. She even dared to yell at her septa, which always made Lyarra smile.

Sansa, however, had not adjusted particularly well. She had come south with dreams of knights, balls, tourneys, feasts, and betrothals. Sleeping on grass or near it did not fit that image. Making it worse, she was one of the very few women who rode in the wheelhouse. Lyarra had once, but preferred to ride her horse. Arya refused to step foot in the slow wooden contraption, as did Dacey Mormont, who had joined their group. Only Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly also consistently rode in the wheelhouse. They had been accompanied by their uncle, Ser Wendel, who rode alongside Jory Cassel. At least she had someone to talk to. Arya was usually Lyarra’s companion, but she was riding with Dacey, leaving Lyarra to try and fend off Torrhen Karstark, Eddard Karstark, and Brandon Tallhart on her own. At least the Smalljon was decent to her. He’d respected her when she said she didn’t want to deal with courting while sweating on horseback. Well, he’d laughed, agreed, and changed the subject to swordplay.

“Have you ever been to the Karhold?” Torrhen Karstark asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Lyarra said, for the third time that trip. “Your uncle is castellan there, right?”

“Well, my father’s uncle, so my grand-uncle,” he replied.

“Ah,” Lyarra said, hoping that would end the conversation.

“He’s the one who taught me to fight,” Torrhen said proudly. “He’s a great fighter, he’s defeated hundreds of wildlings.”

“I remember hearing something about that,” Lyarra said, internally smirking. She knew how to shut him up. He’d even prompted her. “Didn’t he fight off the Skagosi raid on the Grey Cliffs last year?” Torrhen blushed and stammered while Lyarra smiled. Everyone had heard that story. Torrhen had led a group of men, defying his father and uncle’s orders, and been humiliated. Then his uncle had to rescue him, and Lord Karstark had yelled at him in public. Lyarra pressed her horse’s sides, speeding her up. She moved forward, away from Torrhen Karstark. And, unfortunately, into Brandon Tallhart.

“Lady Lyarra,” he said, reaching for her hand. Lyarra reluctantly let him take it. There was a limited amount she could do. As a lady she had to follow certain protocols. As a bastard, one moment of defiance could destroy her prospects forever. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you, my lord,” Lyarra said, focusing her gaze ahead of her. “Are you looking forwards to seeing King’s Landing?”

“Not particularly,” he replied. “It will be interesting to see, I suppose. Are you excited to see it?” Lyarra shrugged.

“Yes and no. It is far larger than any place I have been before, and there are a number of buildings said to be beautiful.”

“That is the benefit of travel,” a voice from behind her said.  _ Thank the gods for the Smalljon, _ she thought. He looked and her, then Brandon Tallhart, and smirked. “We get to see all these pretty things the Southrons have, without having to pay for them ourselves.”

“Don’t you think we should have something to rival the south?” Brandon asked. Lyarra smiled, and the Smalljon laughed.

“Don’t we already?” Lyarra said. “We have the wall, and Winterfell. We have the weirwoods. The difference is we don’t paint them with gold. Torrhen’s Square is quite beautiful. Do you look forward to ruling it?”

“I’m not the heir,” Brandon Tallhart said through gritted teeth. “That’d be my cousin.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for the mistake,” Lyarra said, another placid smile on her face. Brandon Tallhart grimaced and fell back in the group as Lyarra pressed her horse forward again and the Smalljon followed.

“Thank you for the rescue,” Lyarra whispered.

“At this rate I may become one of those poncy knights,” Smalljon grumbled. “Saving damsels in distress and whatnot. Ain’t that what they’re supposed to do?” Lyarra laughed.

“Aye, but they don’t use words like ain’t. And they don’t wrestle or drink ale or dance a jig, they drink wine and wear fancy clothes and dance in those ordered patterns.”

“Well, I’ll never make the cut, thank the gods!” Smalljon declared. He laughed, and Lyarra joined him, neither hiding their amusement. “How’s Ghost?”

“She’s well,” Lyarra said, smiling. “So’s her little sister.”

“She has a sister?”

“She does. Caused quite the stir when we found that little pup. There was one for each of the Stark children.” Smalljon laughed.

“I’m willing to bet Lady Stark wasn’t too pleased at that.”

“That would be putting it mildly, though she reacted better than I expected.”

“Why’s that? I know she does near everything to try and hurt you, why’s this one different?” Lyarra shrugged.

“I’m not sure. She’s older, and doesn’t live in Winterfell.”

“Ah,” Smalljon said. “That’d be it.” Lyarra looked at him questioningly. “You’re what, two moons younger than Rob?” Lyarra nodded. “And this other sister was born when?”

“About a year before me.”

“So, she was conceived. . .”

“Before he was married.” Lyarra nodded. “That’d make sense, I guess.”

“As much sense as she ever makes,” Smalljon replied with a laugh. Lyarra smiled at him.  _ Maybe he wouldn’t be bad,  _ she thought.  _ He’s nice, handsome enough, heir to Last Hearth and all. Would he let me fight? _

“Say, Smalljon,” Lyarra said, riding a little closer. “Did your sisters learn to fight?” He laughed, and smiled at her.

“Does that mean you’re taking my suit seriously?”

“What? Why would it mean that?” Smalljon laughed again, even louder.

“Lya, you’re many things. You’re the best rider since your aunt, a great archer, and the most beautiful woman in the North.”

“Not in the world?” Lyarra said teasingly.

“Well, I haven’t see the rest of the world,” Smalljon replied with a smirk. Lyarra laughed, light and pretty. “The point was, you’re all of that, and a great harpist besides, but you are not sneaky.” Lyarra raised her eyebrow at him, and Smalljon blushed a little.

“I asked some of the guards about you,” he said sheepishly. “Wanted to learn more about this beautiful harp-playing, horse-riding, bow-shooting maiden with a voice only the gods could rival.” Lyarra was blushing now, a much deeper shade than the Smalljon. “They mentioned how you and your little sister, Arya is it?” Lyarra nodded. “How you and Arya always watched the boys training, then snuck off with some wooden swords to practice in the godswood.” Smalljon looked over at her, and, seeing the deep blush, laughed.

“Is it that funny?” Lyarra asked, feeling a hint of anger rising. “A woman with a sword?”

“No, not at all,” Smalljon said quickly. “My sisters are trained, though most chose to learn the basics, then focus on the more. . . ladylike arts. Hell, most terrible things could’ve been stopped by a woman with a sword.”

“Like what?” Lyarra asked, genuinely curious. She like history, and learning. She’d poured over tomes, and loved hypotheticals, but hadn’t followed this line of thought before.

“The rebellion,” he said. “If your aunt had a sword--”

“Rhaegar went with three kingsguard,” Lyarra said, rolling her eyes. “And even if she’d killed him, Aerys would’ve demanded her head.”

“Okay, fair,” Smalljon replied. “If Rhaella had a sword, though, that would’ve made a difference.” Lyarra looked at him, deeply puzzled. “You don’t know about her?” Lyarra shrugged.

“I mean, I know she was Aerys’ wife, but not much else. Lord Stark doesn’t let me read much about the Targaryens.”

“Why?”

“How would I know?”

“Okay, fine, fair. Rhaella  _ was _ his wife, after her father had forced them to marry. Around the same time Aerys started going mad, he became. . . brutal. Raped her, left cuts and bruises, threatened to kill her.”

“How’d you learn about this?” Lyarra asked, her eyes wide. Smalljon looked at her, his expression caught between sorrow and a smile.

“From a book.”

“Which one?” Smalljon took a breath and looked around.

“I don’t think your father’d appreciate me answering that question,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

“He. . .well, he has strong feelings about the authors.”

“Who are they?”

“Tyrion and Jaime Lannister.”

“Oh,” Lyarra said, looking down at the ground ahead of her. “No, he wouldn’t like that. Is that why Ser Jaime was exiled? Father said little other than, ‘finally’ when it happened.” Smalljon nodded.

“Aye, that’s it. Something about revealing royal secrets. His brother went with him.”

“So,” Lyarra said, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “What’s the book called?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Smalljon replied, a grimace on his face. He pressed his horses sides, moving forward. Lyarra sighed, wondering once more why her father had kept her so far away from the Targaryen histories.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  
That evening, as Lyarra unfurled her bedroll, she noticed a small square of parchment pinned to the cloth. Picking it up, she read it.  _ The Shame of the Kingsguard _ , it read.  _ Yours truly, SJ U. _ Lyarra smiled, tucking the note into her saddle bags.


	6. Jon Arryn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Arryn learns too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a kinda short chapter. In good news, the next one is quite long, and I'm getting closer to drafts of the finishing chapters.

**The Sinking Falcon**

Jon Arryn sighed, likely for the eighth time this hour. Rubbing his forehead, he looked at the papers from the Royal Treasury. Seven or eight million dragons in debt, even after paying some two million to the Iron Bank, House Lannister, and some to House Baelish. Perfect time for a tourney. The Iron Bank was already threatening to cut them off, or demand payment. And one did not play games with the Iron Bank.

Turning back to the papers, Jon Arryn’s head hurt. Somehow, Petyr Baelish had nearly tripled the crowns revenue, yet during his tenure, expenses had quintupled, most of the growth coming from the  _ miscellaneous entertainment _ expenses. Jon turned to the man beside him, the King’s Counter.

“Is there a list of these miscellaneous expenses?” he asked. The man nodded. “Where is it kept?”

“In the treasury archives, my Lord,” the man said. Jon Arryn nodded.

“Good. Patrick!” The door opened, revealing a tall man wearing the Arryn sigil over his armor.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Go to the treasury archives. Get everything relating to miscellaneous expenses.”

“Yes my Lord.” Patrick headed out, and the King’s Counter turned towards Jon.

“My Lord, it would be faster if I went instead.” Jon shook his head.

“No, I need you to help me understand the debt categories. Sit over there,” he said, pointing towards the chair across his desk. The man frowned, but sat anyways. “Now,” Jon Arryn continued, “we owe some amount of gold to nearly every house in the kingdom.”

“Barring Dorne.”

“Yes, barring Dorne. Smart clause in the treaty. Anyways, I wanted to ask about the interest rates. Why are so many at 2% per annum?”

“That’s the king’s forced loan rate.” Jon Arryn sighed, and closed his eyes before opening them. “So only House Lannister and the Iron Bank have willingly lent us money?”

“Yes, my lord. The Iron Bank is becoming resistant to giving us further loans.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Their new interest rate for any loan to us is 15%, my lord. They have rated us as a somewhat risky investment.”  _ Fuck, _ Jon Arryn thought.  _ First time that’s happened. _

“Are there any houses that have lent at particularly strange interest rates?”

“No, my lord.” Jon Arryn raised his eyebrows. There was a knock at the door.

“Patrick, my lord. With the papers on miscellaneous expenses.”

“Come in,” the Hand said. He kept looking at the King’s Counter, who was growing nervous. Patrick came in, a massive stack of papers in his arms. He placed them on Jon Arryn’s desk. Jon Arryn pulled off the few top sheets and a blank piece of parchment. He began to add everything in the cost summary, checking to see if it added to the same amount. Shaking, the King’s Counter quickly slipped a small vial out of his sleeve, deftly pouring the two drops into Jon Arryn’s glass. The vial slid back into his sleeve.

“Do you wish me to stay, my lord?” the man asked.

“No, you may go,” Jon Arryn said without looking up. He took a sip of his wine, smiling at the taste. The one benefit of King’s Landing. The man quickly left the room, as fast as he could without alerting anyone. He made his way to Lord Baelish’s quarters, nodding at the guard. He knocked on the door.

“My lord?” he asked. The door opened slowly. Baelish was wearing the same clothes as at the small council meeting that morning, though they were rather rumpled. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Baelish replied curtly, acting as if offended. Gods knew he probably welcomed the interruption given how much he complained of Lady Lysa.

“This is more important,” the man said, brushing by the Master of Coin. He grimaced when he saw the woman in Petyr Baelish’s bed. The man closed the door and turned to Baelish. “We need to talk, in the spot.” Baelish nodded, his eyes widening.

“Do you know the way back?” he asked the woman.

“Yes, Petyr, but--”

“Hush darling. Parts of the plan are in motion, earlier than they should have been. “You must return, and act like nothing is wrong.”

“Anything for you,” the woman said. She quickly dressed and left, moving through the hidden passageways. Baelish and his counter followed suit, moving the opposite way. They soon arrived in their meeting room, halfway between Baelish’s chambers and the treasury.

“What is it?” Baelish asked.

“He found your method. I slipped him the tears.” Baelish grimaced.

“Damn,” he said. “This was supposed to be easier.” He sighed, then paused. “Go, tend to your actual duties, I’ll figure this out.” In truth, he already had. He had enough false evidence to convince Ned Stark the Lannisters had killed his mentor, even if it wouldn’t convince the King or the smallfolk. And he already had someone who could kill the King’s Counter. Easy, peasy, done. The plan would be in full motion by tomorrow evening, two days before the Northmen and the Dornish arrived.


	7. Clarissa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dornish travel through Longtable on their way north, and have a boring feast with an interesting host

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter (<3000 words) and *fully* earns this fic its explicit rating.  
> This was also one of my favorite chapters to write, and to read over. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did.

**A Growing Star**

The last few days had been a logistical nightmare for Clarissa. Lord Manwoody had sent her mother and Prince Doran a raven from Kingsgrave. They had received the responses at Nightsong and Ashford, respectively, with Ashara asking if Clarissa was okay, and Prince Doran asking if witnesses could vouch the Darkstar attacked first. Clarissa sent a letter back to her mother saying that she was fine and fully healed, if a bit sore. Prince Oberyn sent a raven to his brother saying the entire party had served as witnesses and reminding him that Nymeria had actually killed Ser Gerold. The response from Ashara had arrived in Ashford, asking Clarissa not to enter the tourney. Clarissa wrote back, politely refusing and reminder her mother that the Sword of Morning had always entered the melee at every tourney they went to. Prince Doran’s letter arrived in Longtable, and was far more official. He, and the small council he kept, had unanimously decided that, in light of Ser Gerold’s death, actions, and lack of family, ownership High Hermitage would revert to the Daynes of Starfall. With the approval of Lady Ashara, Clarissa would rule High Hermitage, until she became Lady of Starfall and had an heir of her own. Clarissa wanted to keep it a secret, at least for a while.

“Oberyn, I’ve got enough titles already,” she said in the ravenry.

“Really?” he replied. “The Usurper has damn near twenty, I’ve got at least twelve, and you have what? Three?”

“Five,” Clarissa responded. “As you damn well know, you introduce me with all but one of them.”

“Well, that one’s a tad mean,” he said. Clarissa looked down at him. Oberyn glared back. “It’s quite unreasonable that you’re able to look down at me,” the prince said. “I trained you for a long time.” Clarissa laughed.

“Does this mean you’ll keep quiet?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” Clarissa said with a smile. She left the ravenry calm, walking towards her room, where the maids had drawn a bath. She quickly stripped and slid into the water with a sigh. The warm water soaked away the tension from her shoulders. It had been mounting ever since she’d learned there might be an investigation into the Darkstar’s death. She was relieved the court had decided that wasn’t necessary. She picked up the cloth and the bar of soap, roughly scrubbing herself as she cleaned. The water had rose petals floating in it, along with some lavender, she thought. Clarissa rolled her shoulders, detensing the muscles.

Washing her hair was always the harder part. Clarissa reached out, taking the bottle of hairwash she’d brought from Starfall. It was the same one her mother wore, bearing the scent of pomegranate juice and prickly pears. She rubbed it into her hair, trying to get the liquid dispersed evenly. She always failed, her thick hair blocking most of the hairwash from getting to her scalp.

Walking out of her room in a lilac dress, Clarissa smiled. The dress was Dornish in style, a short skirt that was light enough to flicker in the wind, a flowing body, and a low neck. The top of her breasts, the skin a little paler than the rest of her body, peeked out from the dress. A belt tightened the dress to her waist. Dawn, sheathed, rested on her waist. Her smallclothes were a tad tight, though not too small, ensuring her breasts would not pop out should she need to fight. Hearing a whistle behind her, Clarissa turned.

“Is that the dress I gave you?” Nymeria asked, walking closer. Her own dress, a light orange that almost blended into yellow, was far more revealing. The skirt as a little longer than Clarissa’s, but a slit up her leg revealed her olive skin. The neck cut low, her smallclothes peeking out from the bodice. Clarissa bent down, and they kissed each other’s cheeks.

“I believe so,” Clarissa said, smiling. Taking each other’s hands, they walked down the stone stairs, towards the small feast that Lord Merryweather had thrown for them. As they entered the hall, Oberyn looked at her and smirked. The sceneshal, who was announcing everyone, began. “Fuck,” Clarissa said softly.

“What is it?” Nymeria asked, shifting closer. Clarissa rolled her eyes.

“One of your father’s jokes. You’ll see.”

“Lords and ladies, Lady Nymeria Sand of Sunspear--”

“I don’t even live there anymore,” Nymeria whispered as Clarissa bit back a laugh.

“And Lady Clarissa Sand, Sword of Morning, Heir of Starfall, the Born Sword, Revenge of the Red Mountains, Knight of High Hermitage,” the sceneshal finished. Clarissa grimaced, and threw false smiles at everyone as she and Nymeria moved to sit at one of the lower tables. Lord Merryweather gestured for them to join him at the High Table, and, seeing no way to politely refuse, they did.

“Of course,” Clarissa said as they sat down. “The only open seats here are next to you.”

“You should have gotten here earlier then,” Oberyn said with a smirk.

“I would have been early, if you hadn’t lied about the time.” Oberyn smiled at her. “And really, Revenge of the Red Mountains? That one’s ridiculous.”

“Hey!’ he said, pointing a chicken bone at her. “You earned that one.” Clarissa rolled her eyes.

“What evil deed did I commit to have  _ that _ title thrown at me?”

“Lady Clarissa,” Lord Merryweather said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, Lord Merryweather,” she replied, suddenly all manners. “This is a quite the grand feast you have thrown us, I must thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said with a smile. “You are kind to call it grand. Twenty years ago, it truly would have been but now,” he said, gesturing at the tables. “Well, you see.” Clarissa nodded, and grimaced in sympathy.

“I would have thought the king would be more sympathetic to one wronged by Aerys.”

“Ah, but not that much,” Lord Merryweather said, a knowing smile on his lips. “My father liked Rhaegar, as did I, although we managed to keep from saying it in his presence.” Clarissa nodded, and took a sip of the wine in front of her. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Arbor Red,” Lord Merryweather said. “Not as sour as your Dornish wines, but far more body than Arbor Gold.” Clarissa smiled at him.

“You seem quite knowledgeable about wine, Lord Merryweather.”

“I was fostered by the Redwynes,” he said with a smile. “And picked up a taste for stronger flavors in Myr.”

“Ah, Myrrish wine,” Oberyn said, as if lost in memories. “One of my favorites.”

“We have some, if you’d like it, your Grace,” Lord Merryweather said, his hand moving to hold his wife’s. She turned around, towards Lord Merryweather and Prince Oberyn. “My wife, Lady Taena, is from Myr and refuses to drink Reach wine.”

“A wise woman,” Oberyn said, raising his cup.

“Thank you,” Lady Taena said with a smile. “My dearest husband,” she said, with a light shove to his chest, “serves it only at feasts.” Lord Merryweather rolled his eyes, leaning in with his wife to whisper to the dornish.

“Buying from the Arbor buys you favor with the Redwynes,” he said. “As does proclaiming the deliciousness of their products.”

“And if one is liked by the Redwynes,” Oberyn said conspiratorially, leaning towards the Merryweather. “One is liked by the true power in Highgarden.” Lord Merryweather nodded, and smiled at Oberyn, who grinned back. “Well done, Lord Merryweather! What are you actually drinking?” Lord Merryweather’s eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Dornish red,” he said, “mixed with some pomegranate liquor.” Clarissa smiled, raising her glass as if in toast.

“My house’s drink,” she said, before finishing her glass of Arbor Red. “That would explain why we sold a tavern in Longtable two barrels of pomegranate liquor.” Lord Merryweather sat back, smiled, and nodded. He then turned towards the other side of the table.

“An interesting man,” Oberyn said.

“He seems to have good taste,” Nymeria said. Clarissa looked at her, then followed her eyes, towards Lady Taena. She laughed and turned to Oberyn.

“Your grace, you seem to have passed on your lecherous ways!” she exclaimed.

“I should hope so, Lady Clarissa,” the prince responded. “I hired the only maester with a moon-tea link to teach my daughters.” The Dornish section of the High Table, seated to the right of Lord Orton Merryweather, burst out laughing.

“I must say, your grace,” Clarissa said, her hand resting on Nymeria’s thigh. “Those lessons were well-worth the expense.” Oberyn rolled his eyes as the dornish laughed again and Nymeria grinned broadly.

“Clarissa,” Oberyn sighed. “Even I have things I’d rather not know.” Clarissa smirked at him, and turned back to Nymeria.

“Well-worth the expense,” Nymeria said, grinning.

“Very much so,” Clarissa said, leaning towards her. She left a kiss on Nymeria’s cheek, then leaned back. Nymeria looked at her, eyes laden with lust. Clarissa’s pupils had expanded as well, and the purple irises had darkened in color, from lilac to indigo.

“Perhaps I could show you what I learned,” Nymeria said breathily. Clarissa nodded, and stood up.

“Excuse me, Lord Merryweather,” Clarissa said with a curtsey. “My injuries still bother me, I must regretfully leave early.” Lord Merryweather looked at her, then at Nymeria, smirked, and nodded. Clarissa smiled brightly, and grabbed Nymeria’s hand as the two walked out the room, forcing themselves to move slowly. Once they were out of the feasting hall, they ran up the stairs, towards their rooms.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

“Whose room--” Clarissa’s question was cut off by Nymeria as she shoved the Sword of Morning into her door and kissed her. Clarissa fumbled with the doorknob, turning it and stumbling into the room. She closed the door and Nymeria jumped onto her, arms locking behind her neck, legs wrapped around Clarissa’s waist as Nymeria pressed their lips together. She pressed into Clarissa, her ribs pressing into Clarissa’s breasts as she bit down on her lover’s lower lip. Clarissa moaned into Nymeria’s mouth and smiled. Nymeria kissed her again, and Clarissa’s hands wandered lower, sliding from Nymeria’s shoulder. She ran a finger down the Sand Snake’s back, causing Nymeria to shiver. The finger traced up again, and her right hand moved lower, taking a firm grasp of Nymeria’s arse. She moaned, her mouth leaving Clarissa’s, buried in her neck. She sucked at Clarissa’s skin, bruising her throat while Clarissa continue to massage her arse.

Clarissa moved carefully towards her bed. She pulled back, letting Nymeria hang from her neck as she leaned over the bed. Clarissa smirked, and pulled Nymeria’s hands off her neck. She dropped onto the bed with an, “oof.” Still smirking, Clarissa slowly kneeled, her hands tracing over every inch of Nymeria’s body.

“And you call me a tease,” Nymeria said beathily, forcing her head up. Clarissa smirked as she locked eyes with her lover, lust deep in both of them.

“You are,” Clarissa said, gently kissing Nymeria’s inner thigh. She bit down, pulling at the flesh as Nymeria moaned. “Never said I wasn’t.” Nymeria rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond. Clarissa quickly stopped her, running her hand over Nymeria’s smallclothes as her mouth kissed ever closer. Nymeria squeaked when Clarissa bit just below her pelvis. Clarissa’s left hand slid upwards, under Nymeria’s dress, and pulled at her nipple, twisting it gently. Nymeria gave another squeak, which turned into a moan as Clarissa massaged her flesh. Her right hand slowly pulled down Nymeria’s lacey smallclothes, freeing her pathway. Clarissa smiled as her index finger entered Nymeria easily, and the Sand Snake moaned.

“Gods you’re wet,” Clarissa said, smirking at Nymeria. “Just how long have you been wanting this?”

“Sin--ohhh,” Nymeria said, cut off when Clarissa’s mouth kissed at her entrance, her finger slowly withdrawing.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

“I said, s--fuck Clarissa!” Clarissa smirked, withdrawing her finger and flipping Nymeria’s skirts even higher. She teased the smallclothes fully off, taking her place right between Nymeria’s thighs.

“You still haven’t answered the question,” Clarissa said teasingly.

“Because you won’t let me!” Nymeria exclaimed.

“Awww, am I being unfair?” Clarissa said, standing up, away from where Nymeria needed her.

“Yes.”

“And?” Nymeria blushed, head turning towards the wall.

“I love it,” she said quietly. Clarissa smiled, crawling partway up the bed, her arms flexing as she leaned over Nymeria.

“Good girl,” Clarissa said. She lowered herself and leaned down, her lips finding Nymeria’s and latching on. She bit Nymeria’s lower lip. Letting go, her tongue flicked out, tasting the dornish wine Nymeria had snuck into the feast. Nymeria moaned into her mouth, tasting herself on Clarissa’s tongue. Clarissa moved down, her mouth tracing kisses down Nymeria’s neck, leaving a dark hickey on her collarbone. She pulled Nymeria’s dress clear of her shoulders, pulling it down with her as she kissed down Nymeria’s chest. She kissed Nymeria’s breasts, her left hand playing with the other. She bit Nymeria’s nipple, tweaking the over in the same moment as she squeaked and moaned. Clarissa massaged and squeezed Nymeria’s pale breast, sucking at her other one, leaving a cluster of hickeys.

“Please,” Nymeria said, a moan in her voice. Clarissa looked up, eyes staring into Nymeria’s. Both their irises were gone, taken over by their pupils.

“Please what?” she teased.

“Please!’ Nymeria exclaimed. “Please, take, take care of me.”

“Oh darling,” Clarissa said with a smirk. “I’ll always take care of you.” Nymeria growled and threw a pillow at her as she laughed. “Aww, did you want something more specific?” Nymeria nodded.

“Well then,” Clarissa said in a breathy tone, leaning over Nymeria’s body. “What was it? Was it this?” she asked, her hand pulling at Nymeria’s nipple, forcing out a squeak. “Was it this?” she asked, leaning up, pulling at Nymeria’s hair and sucking on her neck as she let out a moan.

“P-please,” Nymeria said, her tone breathy, the moan carried on the words. “E-eat me out. Make me cum.”

“There,” Clarissa said with a smirk, letting go of Nymeria’s neck. She sat up, rolling her hips against Nymeria’s, drawing out another moan. “That’s all you had to say.” Before Nymeria could say a thing, Clarissa had slipped back to the floor, kneeling between Nymeria’s leg. Deft, practiced hands took Nymeria’s thighs, pulling her closer as she moved Nymeria’s thighs onto her shoulders. She leaned in, tongue tracing over Nymeria’s slit. The moan pulled her forward, and Clarissa lowered her head, tongue slipping between Nymeria’s folds. She moved quickly, tracing over all the right places, knowing which spots would make Nymeria moan and scream. She teased a finger in from below her head, then another.

Clarissa moved her head forward as a third finger slipped in. Nymeria’s moan turned into a shriek of pleasure as Clarissa’s tongue wrapped around her clit. Her mouth encompassed it as Nymeria pressed a pillow to her face, quieting her moans as Clarissa sucked at her clit, fingers moving in and out of her pussy. Clarissa sucked harder, her fingers moving deeper, rubbing against Nymeria’s g-spot. Nymeria’s hips bucked, and bucked again as Clarissa worked, teeth teasing her clit. The pillow absorbed most of her moans, but some still made their way to Clarissa as Nymeria began chanting her name. Clarissa smiled, and let go of Nymeria’s clit. Her finger lifted up, almost out of Nymeria’s pussy. They surged back in, rubbing against her g-spot. Her mouth surrounded Nymeria’s clit, sucking it into her mouth, as far as it would go. Her fingers rubbed faster, and curled up inside of Nymeria, small nails scratching over her g-spot as Nymeria came undone, her moans flying past the pillow.

Clarissa smiled, wiping some of the sticky liquid from her face. She crawled up the bed, hovering over Nymeria as she lay down, head on the pillow, catching her breath. Clarissa held out her fingers, tracing over Nymeria’s lips. Her mouth opened, moving up and sucking at her fingers, cleaning them. Nymeria’s lips cleared the last with a pop.

“Your turn,” Nymeria said, sitting up. Her eyes still sparkled with desire. She moved off the bed, opening one of the drawers in Clarissa’s room. She turned and grinned, a long shaft of polished wood, connected to leather straps in her hand. Clarissa unsuccessfully bit back a moan as Nymeria strapped it on. She walked over, hands moving quickly to relieve Clarissa of her dress. She kissed Clarissa, tasting herself again, as she shoved her onto the bed. Clarissa flopped onto the mattress, Nymeria straddling her as they kissed. She traced her hands to Clarissa’s breasts, squeezing them and drawing out a moan. Clarissa re-opened her eyes, looking up at Nymeria, a devilish grin on her face. She flipped them, straddling over Nymeria. She gripped the wooden shaft, carefully moving herself over it.

“The lube’s in the other drawer,” Nymeria said, gesturing. Clarissa shook her head.

“Trust me, I don’t need it.” She slipped onto the wood attachment, moaning as she continued down it. She sat still for a second after absorbing it whole, Nymeria twisting and playing with her breasts. Clarissa began to move, knees on the bed, as she fucked herself on Nymeria’s wood toy. Her moans grew louder, and Nymeria sat up, yanking Clarissa’s hair, drawing her closer. Nymeria slammed their lips together, her mouth absorbing Clarissa’s moans as she began to thrust back, the small nub on the other end driving her wild as it ground into her clit.

They came at the same time, lips still connected. They sat still for a while, Clarissa with the toy inside her. She slipped off eventually, and Nymeria carefully undid the leather straps. A small bucket of water was waiting in the corner of the room. Nymeria thoroughly washed the toy, despite Clarissa’s distracting kisses.

“How much time did you spend planning this?” Clarissa asked as they lay, cuddled, on the bed. Nymeria shrugged.

“Ten minutes, maybe? All it took was asking a servant a favor an sneaking something into your room.” Clarissa nodded, then rolled onto her side, burying her head in Nymeria’s neck. Her arm flopped over Nymeria’s chest. Nymeria’ pulled on it, bringing Clarissa closer, part of her body covering Nymeria. She sighed contentedly, which was met by a smile from Clarissa.

“Glad I still please you,” Clarissa said teasingly. “Don’t you usually switch partners by now?” Nymeria rolled her eyes, then kissed Clarissa’s forehead.

“Well, all my  _ other _ partners had these weird ideas about  _ monogamy _ and  _ proper relationships, _ or were trying to use me to attract some boy,” she said, with a little more irritation. “I mean, why base our relationships on what the Faith says? They already say we shouldn’t be together, why follow any of their other guidelines?” Clarissa shrugged. “And I don’t like being used.”

“I know dear,” Clarissa said, gently kissing Nymeria’s jaw. “I promise, if I ever want something from you, I’ll ask.” Nymeria smiled, and their lips met again as Clarissa shimmied up the bed. “And fuck the Seven.”

“Fuck the Seven,” Nymeria repeated, and spread her legs wider.


	8. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick view at how Tyrion and Jaime are doing over in Essos

**The Running Lions**

His hair was dyed a bright blue. His clothes were all shades of the rainbow, save red. His sword was common for this area, and his eyes, well, not too much could be done about them. That  _ should _ have been enough. It wasn’t.

“How the hell did they track me here?” he asked after storming into the rented house. He looked down at his brother, a blonde dwarf, one eye green, the other black.

“I don’t know Jaime,” Tyrion Lannister said. “We sent five false ships out from Braavos, and I  _ know _ the king thought we were in Pentos.”

“So who the hell tried to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion repeated. Jaime sighed, collapsing onto the couch. The house they’d rented wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t  _ too _ shabby. His father was sending them money, counting on Joffery to bring him back from exile once the fat king died. He had briefly refused, enraged at the criticism Jaime had leveled. Tyrion was there to make sure Jaime, “Didn’t do anything that stupid again.”

“Do we have a clearer list of who’s trying to kill me?” Jaime asked, looking at Tyrion.

“A bit,” Tyrion said. “No one in Dorne, they’re mostly still celebrating our family feud. Robert still wants you dead, but he can’t do anything publicly and doesn’t have the brain to do anything out of the public eye.” Jaime nodded.

“Still sure we shouldn’t try and find the Targaryens?” he asked. Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“In addition to father joining King Robert in the ‘let’s just kill them’ camp, working for a beggar king isn’t high on my agenda.” Jaime shrugged.

“From what I heard, he’s not in charge any more. Daenerys and her khal decided to ride the Dothraki Sea rather than deal with him. He’s followed.” Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“Thank you for adding to my case. An idiot king, wandering the Dothraki sea, or his younger sister, married to a khal and uninterested in Westeros.”

“Fair enough. So, back to the list.”

“Right,” Tyrion said, grabbing his roll of parchment. “So, some of the loyalist houses are still after you.”

“ _ Still? _ I thought Aurane would’ve pulled them in.” Tyrion shrugged.

“Darry, Velaryon, Celtigar, Crabb, Bar Emmon, Massey, Mooton, Whent, Hogg, and the Brunes have all forgiven you. Thorne, Bogg, Harte, and Manning think it was too little, too late. Prince Doran may or may not want you dead, it’s damn near impossible to tell with him. He doesn’t even let his heir or brother in.” Jaime shrugged.

“Father never let you or me in either,” he said.

“Yes, and very few people can predict what he’ll do.” Tyrion held Jaime’s gaze for a while, then looked back down at the parchment. “The ironborn don’t care, the North is too honorable to send assassins, most of the Reach is with Dorne, laughing as the lion bites its tail. No one in the Riverlands actually  _ likes _ Robert anymore, they fought because Hoster Tully told them too, and for connections with the North and the Vale. Littlefinger is almost certainly trying to kill you, it would cause the kind of chaos he loves. Swann, Trant, and probably a handful of other small Stormlands houses are trying to kill you as well, they think they’ll be rewarded if they succeed. Fortunately, they’re far too poor to hire anyone competent.”

“So, that was today’s assassin then,” Jaime said. “Almost dropped his sword when he saw me.” Tyrion snorted and kept going.

“With Littlefinger comes Lyn Corbray, the Gulltown Arryns, and the Hardyngs. If Lyn Corbray comes, that’ll be a serious fight. He’s a deadly knight with a dishonorable reputation--”

“So am I,” Jaime interjected with a snort.

“He has a Valyrian steel sword.” 

“Ah. So, where to next?”

“Still not joining sellsword companies?”

“Unless you’re sure you’ll be safe, no.”

“How about the Golden Company? They’re supposedly honorable. They’ve never sold a member, nor broken a contract. And they’re camped right outside the city.” Jaime rolled his shoulders and stood.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The two waited until nightfall to leave. There was less of a chance someone would spot them. They snuck out of town quietly, through back allies and over a couple fences. Outside the city walls, they followed the island’s only road north, towards the massive encampment.

“What business do you have here?” the guard asked as they approached the camp. His form had been well-hidden in the night, the lack of campfires allowing his black skin and leather armor to blend into the background.

“We wish to join you,” Jaime said.

“We?” Tyrion hissed.

“You said they hadn’t sold a  _ member _ ,” Jaime whispered. “Not they hadn’t sold a member’s guest.”

“I won’t survive ten minutes of battle!”

“You can do their numbers.” Tyrion shrugged. The guard, who had been looking back and forth as the encounter went on, raised his eyebrow.

“Siblings?” he asked. They nodded. “You sound like my sister and me, back when we were younger. Come on, follow me.” Not know what to say, the two Lannisters followed the man. They walked past a few remaining campfires, past large sleeping tents, and towards the center, where the commanders slept. They walked into a tent that was not quite in the center of the camp, a light still burning. Two men stood close, leaning over sheets of parchment, a well-marked map below them.

“We don’t have ships,” the shorter man said.

“The Tyroshi do,” the other replied. “They already said we could use them.”

“General!” the guard said, alerting them to his presence. “Paymaster.”

“Dothaq,” the tall man said. “Who have you brought?”

“Two men, claiming they want to join.” The tall man raised his eyebrow and walked closer, still too far apart to be stabbed by a dagger.

“And who might you be?” the man asked. Jaime smiled, then laughed, a loud bellyaching laugh that Tyrion joined in on quickly.

“Oh gods,” Jaime said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s nice to meet someone who has to ask.”

“Much better than being greeted with, ‘Hello Ser Kingslayer,’” Tyrion added. “And his little pet, the imp of Casterly Rock!”

“That or, ‘Traitor and monstrosity,’ as our sister last greeted us.”

“Remember that guy in Norvos?” Jaime laughed as the men of the golden company watched them with confusion.

“The one who asked which was worse, hearing Aerys rape Rhaella or protecting my sister’s husband while he was whoring?”

“No, the nobleman who presented us as,  ‘Far-Too-Short and Way-Too-Late!’”

“No, that wasn’t the man in Norvos, that was Monford Velaryon.”

“Oh, yeah. Then what’d the Norvos noble say?”

“Something like ‘Westeros’ worst goodwill tour.’ I’m not sure, we were both pretty drunk at that point.”

“If I can interrupt,” the tall man said, his voice a mixture of amused and angry. The shorter man was glaring at them, which Dothaq was still laughing. “Your names, please.”

“Oh! Right!” Jaime said. “I’m Jaime Lannister, former heir to Tywin Lannister.”

“And I’m Tyrion Lannister, rejected heir of Tywin Lannister, and that idiot’s brother.” Jaime looked down at Tyrion with a mock glare.

“You didn’t call me an idiot when I bought all that Dornish wine.”

“That’s only because I was too drunk to call you anything.” The tall man rolled his eyes at the antics, the stook out his hand. Jaime shook it, as did Tyrion.

“Ser Harry Strickland. Captain-General of this company.” The Lannisters nodded. “Isn’t there a ‘Ser’ at the start of your name?” Jaime shrugged.

“Threw it away when I let Aerys rape Rhaella.”

“Didn’t Arthur Dayne do the same thing?”

“He threw it away too. We all did.”

“I see you read the book,” Tyrion said with a grin.

“Damn near everyone literate’s read the book, son. Hell, we got an offer to kill you two for fifty thousand dragons!”

“Why didn’t you take it?” Jaime asked, his brow furrowed.

“Reputation,” Tyrion replied.

“Exactly!” Harry exclaimed, pointing his finger at Tyrion. “Golden Company don’t do assassinations. End of sentence. ‘Sides, we don’t change camp for less than two hundred thousand.”

“So, will you take us?” Jaime asked. Tyrion kicked him for being so blunt.

“Him, yes,” Harry said, pointing at Tyrion. “One paymaster ain’t near enough for a group of twenty thousand.”

“I have to work with  _ that _ ?” the paymaster asked. Jaime gripped his sword pommel, but Tyrion stepped forward.

“You don’t have to,” Tyrion said. “You could always quit. Or kill yourself. Buy a farm? Become a whore? Devote your life to R’hllor? I balanced the books for the whole of the Westerlands, pretty sure I can manage without you.” The paymaster glared at him while Harry smiled and Jaime and Dothaq laughed.

“Yep,” Harry said. “He’s definitely hired. But you,” he said, turning to Jaime. “How do I know your arm and brain haven’t been broken by three years abroad, running, hiding and drinking?”

“We could spar,” Jaime said, rolling his shoulders.

“Nah,” Harry replied. “I’ve got a problem soldier. Runs a group of cavalry. Anyways, he’s tryin’ to get them to split, join the Second Sons. Getting paid fifty dragons a head, and makin’ my life difficult. I’ll charge ‘im, find ‘im guilty, he’ll request trial by combat, and you’ll fight ‘im. You win, you get his job. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Jaime replied, sticking out his hand. Harry shook it.

“Dothaq, show them to the guest tent.” Dothaq nodded, moving away while Tyrion and Jaime followed. “Oh, another thing,” Harry said. “Guy fights with a flail.”

“Gods damn it,” Jaime muttered.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The guest tent was fairly comfortable. Good bedrolls, it came with a pillow, and the breakfast was fairly high quality. The trial was everything else. It was hot, humid, the sea breeze hadn’t shown up that day, and Jaime had to dress in his armor.

“I demand trial by combat!” the guilty man yelled. There were cheers. Everything, it seemed, ended with trial by combat in the Golden Company. “I am my own champion!” Jaime looked the man up and down one last time. He was large, but not obscenely so. 6’2” or so and bulky. He had on heavy armor, extremely thick and covered with black enamel. Jaime could’ve danced. It was a hot, sunny day, and his opponent decided to wear extremely heavy black-colored armor. He’d drop like a fly after a few minutes.

The flail still scared him a little. It had a long chain, which could easily wrap around his sword or his shield. Jaime shrugged, and decided to keep his sword on his belt, choosing an axe to start out with. He wasn’t nearly as good with it as his sword, but chains don’t break axes.

His opponent moved first, charging immediately, flail swinging. He aimed for Jaime’s head, but missed. As the flail made the final ascent, Jaime moved, pushing off his back foot. He ran into the next two steps, his body slamming into the man’s armor. The flail was coming back around, and the man staggered back. Jaime moved forward again, cutting down hard with his axe. The man blocked with his shield, and the axe stuck as Jaime left it, grabbing his dagger as he followed his momentum, sliding into his opponent’s space. He stabbed, the steel slicing into the man’s vulnerable armpit. The man screamed and lashed out with his shield. Jaime dropped into a roll, slipping through the man’s legs and coming up on the other side. His dagger slid between the man’s plates, slicing into his weapon hand. He dropped the flail, and Jaime sidestepped the man. As the armor carried his opponent onwards, forcing him to stagger, stop, and turn, Jaime picked up the man’s flail. The man watched as Jaime swung it once, twice, and let it fly on the third. The flail flew over the man’s head and into the crowd. Drawing his sword, Jaime charged as the man ripped the axe off his shield.

They were on his terms now. Jaime’s sword work was excellent, feinting, stabbing, deftly cutting as he forced the heavier man to stumble and block in sweeping motions, costing him more energy each time. He saw the man’s sweat building up against his helmet, running into his eyes. He watched and waited. The man blinked, trying to clear the sweat from his eyes. Jaime saw it and lunged, the point slipping between the man’s chest and neck plates, the lunge carrying it up and on until it ran into the armor at the other end. The man’s hands fell limp as he gurgled. Jaime withdrew his sword, and the man collapsed to the ground. He was soon dead. Jaime cleaned his blade and took off his helmet.

“Welcome to the company,” Harry said, patting him on the back before turning to the crowd and shouting, “Would someone deal with the body?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Jaime has left Cersei, regaining much of the personality that made Tyrion love his older brother when they were younger. The two of them have also been travelling Essos for years together. Their comfort with each other is far beyond what it is in canon. Tyrion is also bolder, as the past several years have been filled with comraderie and brotherly love rather than Tywin's and Cersei's put-downs. He's run away with his older brother, rather than from his father. Given that he's already a sassy bitch in canon, well, you see where it leads.


	9. Lyarra III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra meets her newest sister and the seeds of future revelations are set as we enter Act Two

**The Waiting Wolf**

The Stark party had hardly been enthusiastic about going to the capitol to start out with. “Starks don’t do well in the South,” her father had said. “We melt.” That mood had become far more grim once they arrived to the news that Jon Arryn had died the day before. The Grand Maester said it was natural causes. Lady Lysa, Lord Arryn’s wife and Lord Stark’s sister-by-law, had run off to the Vale with her son. Her father and the King both wanted to blame someone, but lacked suspects. The dornish were still a day away, having been stopped by flooding at Bitterbridge. The Targaryens were weak and far away. Her father wanted to blame the Lannisters, but Tyrion and Jaime were in Essos, and Tywin had worked closely with Jon.

The funeral service was grim. It was held in the Great Sept of Baelor, a misnomer if there ever was one. True, it looked beautiful on the outside, and had some amazing sculptures and stained glass. But it was small, crowded, stuffy, and they refused to let the smallfolk in. Most bastards weren’t allowed entrance either, it was only because she was a grieving party’s family that Lyarra had been allowed in. Even to Sansa, who took every word of the Seven-Pointed Star literally and believed it all, found the rules to be harsh.

After the funeral had proved to be even worse. The king had held a feast, where he forced Lord Stark to be his hand. He then proceeded to get drunk, grope a servant girl, and announce an expansion of the tourney.

“This is the Hands’ Tourney,” King Robert had said, slurring his words. No one was sure if he meant hand’s or hands’. “To celebrate the life and service--hic--of Lord Jon Arryn, and to welcome my new hand, friend, and brother in all but name, Lord Eddard Stark, to the capitol as my new hand.” The audience had politely clapped, but it was the prizes that stunned people. Ravens were written to second-sons, cousins, and impoverished lords everywhere.

“One hundred and fifty thousand dragons!” King Robert had declared jubilantly. “For the first-place joust. One hundred thousand for second, and fifity thousand for third. One hundred thousand--no, one hundred twenty thousand! For the first place in the melee. Fifty thousand for second. Fifty thousand for first place archer--archerer--archery, yes that’s it, fifty thousand for first place archery, and twenty thousand for second-place.” Her father had a headache before he’d officially began his tenure as hand.

These thoughts were running through Lyarra’s head as she strolled through the Red Keep with her two direwolf pups, waiting for the Dornish party. Even though they were still pups, the two direwolves were larger than any housecat Lyarra had seen. Lyarra hoped her sister would be with the dornish. She didn’t really know why she would be, though Lyarra had heard bastards were treated better in Dorne. Maybe she’d become a guard? Lyarra mentally shrugged. It was possible. The whole of Dorne trained women to fight, though like Smalljon’s sisters, most chose to learn only basic defense skills.

This brought her thoughts back to Smalljon. He was kind, he would inherit a keep, he liked that she read and that she could fight, he was  _ fairly _ close to her age, at least compared to many of her marriage prospects. Still, something in her hesitated. She didn’t know what, but she followed that instinct. Marriage was rather permanent, after all.

Lyarra’s head turned at the sound of trumpet, and she hurried out across the drawbridge, sneaking into the back of the greeting party.

“Where is Prince Doran?” one person asked in a whisper.

“He’s not here,” replied someone else. Lyarra recognized that voice, it was Lord Renly. He was standing next to a lithe young man, well-dressed and groomed.

“That’ll cause a stir,” the young man said, a kind of glee in his voice. Lord Renly nodded.

“My dear Prince Doran,” Lord Renly said, stepping forward towards the party. “I am glad you could come. I see you have lost some weight,” he said, his tone jesting, “lost a few inches of height, and started riding horses again! I can tell you’ve been spending time in the sun, you look a bit darker. Your grace, I’d even say you look. . .fifteen years younger! Tell me, how do you do it?” The man Lord Renly was talking to rolled his eyes and lithely slipped from his saddle.

“And you, Lord Renly, have taken some jester classes since last we met,” the man said. “Though I recommend finding a different tutor.” The Dornish party laughed, as did Lord Renly. Many of them slipped from their saddles as well, walking their horse towards the greeting party.

“It is truly good to see you, Prince Oberyn,” Lord Renly said as the two walked back towards the castle. “King’s Landing has become almost as faith-obsessed as Oldtown, and it is a welcome relief to have a guest who understands my. . . predilections.” The prince, the woman beside him, and the two younger women walking behind him laughed. “Your grace, my good friend and former squire, Ser Loras Tyrell.” They shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Ser Loras,” the prince said. “A brother of Willis’ is always welcome at my hearth.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Ser Loras said with a smirk and a winked. Prince Oberyn turned to Lord Renly, both raising their eyebrows towards King Robert’s brother, who smiled, laughed, and nodded.

“Sure, why not,” the woman at Prince Oberyn’s side said. She turned towards Prince Oberyn. “I can find my own entertainment for one evening.” One of the women behind the prince rolled her eyes. She was tall, tall enough for Lyarra to see her, even behind the row of guards, Lord Renly, Ser Loras, Prince Oberyn, and his companion. She was well-muscled, though not blatantly so, as many men were. Her arms were toned, with a few bumps of obvious muscle, but not the log-thick things that the Greatjon had. Her hair was black and full of curls, and her eyes were a bright lilac.

“And who are these fine women?” Ser Loras said, looking at Prince Oberyn’s companion.

“Ah, where are my manners?” the prince exclaimed.

“Something I often wonder,” his companion muttered. The two women behind her laughed.

“First, may I present my paramour and the mother of four of my children, Lady Ellaria Sand.” Lyarra was taken aback.  _ He doesn’t have a wife? Wait, four of my children? How many does he have? _ “This,” Prince Oberyn said, wrapping his arm around the shorter woman, bringer her to the fore. “Is my second-eldest daughter, Nymeria.”

“Enchanted,” Lord Renly said, bowing and kissing her hand. Ser Loras followed suit.

“And Lady Clarissa Sand.” The other direwolf, the unnamed one in Lyarra’s arms, struggled against her, trying to crawl her way out of her arms. Lyarra raised her eyebrow, but tried to contain the direwolf. The direwolf bit down on her arm, and Lyarra yelped, and the greeting group turned towards her. Prince Oberyn quirked an eyebrow. Lyarra curtsied gracefully.

“Lyarra Snow,” she said.

“Ah yes,” Prince Oberyn said. “Lord Stark’s  _ other _ bastard daughter.” Lyarra winced, though she tried to hide it. Lady Clarissa glared at Prince Oberyn.

“Really?” she asked. Prince Oberyn shrugged. Lady Clarissa pushed by him, walking towards Lyarra.

“Prince Oberyn, feel free to introduce the rest of the party,” Lady Clarissa said. She pushed through the guards with a glare and stood in front of Lyarra, nearly half a foot taller, as the prince continued to introduce people. Her dress was beautiful, a light bronze that drew out her lilac eyes.  _ Lighter than mine _ , Lyarra thought. Her dress was also lighter. And smaller. Much smaller.

“Hello Lyarra,” Lady Clarissa said. “Why don’t you walk with me.” Lyarra nodded, and the two walked off, slowly moving towards the stables. “Who was your mother?” Clarissa asked eventually.

“No idea,” Lyarra said. “Father never told me.”

“Really?” Clarissa asked. “My mother told me when I was six or seven. Then again, Dorne is far more open to bastards than your frozen north.”

“It’s not frozen,” Lyarra said. “The wall is, but it’s a beautiful blue, shaded between the sky and how people paint the oceans.”

“That does sound beautiful,” Clarissa said. She leaned over Lyarra, looking down. “Who are they?”

“OH! Right, sorry,” Lyarra said, her mind still recovering from the dornish party’s entry. “They’re direwolves. We found them during a hunt, one for each of the Stark children. Which is how we learned about you,” Lyarra said with a smile. “Which pleased Lady Stark not at all.” Clarissa laughed, and took the direwolf pup as Lyarra handed it to her.

“What’s her name?” Clarissa asked, petting the large pup.

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Lyarra replied. “We all named our own.” Clarissa raised her eyebrow, then shrugged.

“I do have a healing sword,” she said. “Guess I can’t be too surprised.”

“You have a healing sword?” Lyarra asked.

“Ah, well, yes” Clarissa said with a laugh. “We left before Oberyn got to embarrass me with an absurdly long list of titles. I’m the Sword of Morning.”

“You are?” Lyarra asked. “How? Since when? Why? Wait, home many titles do you have?” Clarissa laughed.

“I passed a series of trials three and a half years ago. As for why, I have no idea. I was born with the mark of Sunrise, the mark of the Sword of Morning. And very few that matter. How about you? What do you do?”

“Nothing that spectacular,” Lyarra replied. “I’m a good rider, I play the harp, I shoot well. Sometimes I steal wooden sword and practice what we see the boys doing in the training yard.”

“Why do you train in secret?”

“Lord and Lady Stark won’t let us.”

“Why the hell not?” Clarissa took a breath, and let it go. “I know someone who can train you both. He’s good, he taught me even though I use the wrong weapon for his style. I will warn you, his training methods are. . . rather unusual.” Lyarra smiled.

“My sister and I are rather unusual. We’ll get along fine.” Clarissa laughed, then hugged Lyarra.

“Great. He’ll meet you near the godswood tomorrow morning. I have to go, before my countrymen mock me anymore than they already have. Thanks for the direwolf.” And with that Lady Clarissa, the most interesting family member Lyarra had met, walked back towards the dornish.


	10. Clarissa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn and Clarissa learn just how close to the razor's edge King's Landing is

**Whispering Blades**

Clarissa walked back to the Red Keep entrance, a white direwolf pup in her arms. Gods the thing was large, and it was still a pup.

“Ah, she returns!” Oberyn exclaimed.

“I apologize, your grace,” she said with a curtsey. “I left to talk with a sibling, as I am sure you have never done in Oldtown, Highgarden, Casterly Rock, or even here.”

“Just for that, I’m telling the steward or sceneshal to use all your titles,” Oberyn replied. Clarissa groaned, but curtseyed to Lord Renly and Ser Loras, as the rest of the party had left, save a few guards. Ser Loras bowed first, followed by Lord Renly, who kissed her hand.

“How did you meet Prince Oberyn, Lord Renly?” Clarissa asked as she walked into the Red Keep.

“A tale for another time,” Lord Renly replied with a knowing smile.

“And a place with fewer listening ears,” Prince Oberyn added. Ser Loras, his large brown eyes gleaming, smirked at Lord Renly.

“Now this, I simply must hear,” the young knight said.

“Tonight, Loras,” Renly replied, a smile of his own.

“Ser Loras,” Clarissa said. “Have you come for the tourney?”

“I have,” Ser Loras said. “Though it has been delayed.”

“Delayed?” Oberyn asked, looking between Loras and Renly. “Why? The U--the king never delays a tourney.” Renly glared at Oberyn for a moment, but it seemed to pass quickly.

“Lord Arryn died two days ago,” Renly said quietly. “The funeral was yesterday.”

“What?” Oberyn asked. “How did he die?”

“The Grand Maester claims natural causes,” Renly continued in a hushed tone. “He  _ is _ owned by Tywin Lannister, however. Although that may not matter in this case, he is also incompetent and may have missed poison he was meant to find. I am fairly sure he would have trouble finding his beard were it not attached to his face.” Oberyn and Clarissa smiled faintly.

“Anyways,” Renly said loudly, beginning to walk back to the keep. “The tourney has become the Hand’s Tourney. Or the Hands’ Tourney. No one is quite sure.”

“Was the king drunk?” Oberyn asked.

“Very,” Loras replied mirthfully. “He also announced the prizes while drunk.” Oberyn laughed, and Clarissa smiled hungrily.

“How much?” she asked.

“Which one?” Renly asked, somewhat disparagingly. “There are first and second place prizes for the melee and archery--”

“Which the king managed to mispronounce twice at the feast last night,” Loras gleefully interjected.

“And first, second, and third place in the joust. The losers of the semi-final will joust before the final round.”

“How is he affording this?” Clarissa asked. Renly simply shrugged his hands as if giving up.

“No one knows,” Loras said. “The total is over half a million dragons. And with the crowds this will bring in, the crown is expected to spend almost one million.”

“Aren’t they already six million in debt?” Clarissa asked.

“Eight, counting this tourney” Renly replied bitterly. “Roughly two and a half each to the Iron Bank and the Lannisters, then a little to nearly every House outside of Dorne. I should know, he forced me into a two hundred thousand dragon loan five years ago, and piled a thirty-eight thousand one on top last year.”

“Thank the gods for our treaty,” Oberyn muttered. “How is he going to--”

“No one knows,” Renly said darkly.

“And the Crown Prince isn’t likely to make things better,” Loras whispered. Renly glared and pulled them into the center of the room, away from the listening walls. Oberyn looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

“He’ll say whatever he wants,” Renly replied quietly. “Gods know I can’t stop him, but I can make sure others don’t hear it.” Oberyn nodded.

“My Tyene is like that,” he said. “Now, Loras, you were saying?”

“Prince Joffrey doesn’t spend like his father,” Loras said. “Not as bad, anyways. But he’s cruel, vicious, and weak. The old servants call him the second coming of Aerys.”

“Aerys managed his budget well,” Oberyn said.

“Yes, but rebellions are bad for taxes, and the King has already cut rates repeatedly,” Loras replied. “And the interest is, what did you say it was Renly?”

“Nearly half a million.”

“So, the king’s dynasty is screwed,” Oberyn said with a smirk. “Got it.”

“The King’s Dynasty, your grace,” Renly said gently. “Not the Baratheon Dynasty.” Renly then turned and gracefully exited the room, Loras in his wake, the two lovers leaving Oberyn and Clarissa behind to wander towards their rooms. They were with the rest of the Dornish party, in the outer edges of the Red Keep.

“What  _ is _ that?” Oberyn asked, seeming to notice the direwolf for the first time.

“She’s a direwolf,” Clarissa replied. “Lyarra Snow, who you so kindly pointed out as Ned Stark’s other bastard daughter, brought him down from Winterfell for me. Apparently there was one for each Stark child. Equally apparent,” she said as they climbed a flight of stairs. “Was that my father had decided not to mention my existence to anyone.” Oberyn sighed. “Not that I’m particularly surprised,” Clarissa continued. “This is, after all, the man who bought twenty thousand soldiers with a marriage and decided putting his drunk, whoring friend on the throne mattered more than fulfilling a promise to his love.”

“Are you okay?” Oberyn asked as they headed towards her room. Clarissa sighed.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably be fine, so long as I don’t have to meet him. If I do, I’m not sure if I can keep from killing him.”

“Ah, yes,” Oberyn said, a smile playing at his face. “The perfect way to ingratiate us. A dornish woman kinslaying the King’s adopted brother.” Clarissa sighed.

“I’ll try not to,” she said with faked levity. “But I can’t guarantee anything.” Turning away, she walked into her room and closed the door with a heavy sigh.

“Rough day?” Nymeria asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Nymeria!” Clarissa exclaimed, moving over towards her bed. She flopped onto it, lying next to Nymeria. “Fuck.”

“Who’s this?” Nymeria asked as the little direwolf moved over towards her.

“Haven’t decided on a name,” Clarissa replied. “Lyarra gave her to me. Said they found one direwolf for all the Stark children, apparently including me. Who they’d never heard of. Cause quite the stir in Winterfell.” Nymeria laughed, as did Clarissa.

“How are you holding up?” Nymeria asked, lying down next to her. Clarissa turned, facing Nymeria. Her eyes had darkened again, this time with sadness as the usual lilac crept into violet. Tears refracted the light hitting her eyes, making them seem to sparkle.

“I don’t know,” Clarissa replied with a sigh. “She was nice, I can tell you that. She and one of her sisters wanted to learn swordplay, but  _ Ned _ and his wife refused her.” She spat “Ned” out like a curse.

“And?” Nymeria asked, her hand brushing through Clarissa’s hair.

“I still hate him. He traded love for a marriage to a girl he’d never met and twenty thousand soldiers. He decided it was fine to throw Elia and the Targaryens away, even the babes. He didn’t kill them, but he clearly wasn’t all that bothered. And he never mentioned me to his family. He’s never seen me, even when he returned Dawn. Aunt Allyria told me. She asked if he wanted to see my mother and me, and he refused, just turned away.” Clarissa’s eyes we watering. Nymeria moved closer and tugged at Clarissa, placing an arm around her. Clarissa rolled in, burying her head in Nymeria’s chest.

“I know,” Nymeria said. “He’s a dick. And I’ll be here for you, just like you were for me when I came back from Volantis.” Clarissa nodded, sitting up and smiling at Nymeria.

“I remember, you were crying. I hadn’t seen you cry before, and so I sat next to you and placed an arm around you. You just collapsed into my lap,” Clarissa said, smiling up at Nymeria. “I had no idea what I was doing, so I just sat and listened and played with your hair.” Nymeria smiled back and nodded.

“And distracted me and took me outside the palace.” Clarissa smirked at her.

“I remember some of those distractions quite vividly,” she said. Nymeria rolled her eyes, but kissed Clarissa anyways.

“Come on,” Nymeria said, pulling at Clarissa’s arm. “We need to get ready. We’re being presented in an hour and a half, and the feast is right after.” Clarissa rolled her eyes, but sat up, stretched, and walked towards her drawers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loras' big mouth is canon and the best form of plot exposition


	11. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple introduction gets rather heated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: Very BAMF OC, Robert's Kingsguard gets what it deserves. Also, that the scenario gets that far is unlikely, even with this Robert being even drunker than canon.
> 
> Also, while this starts as Cersei's POV, it switches to a neutral one during the fight, partly because Cersei wouldn't recognize what's happening and partly because it started to get confusing when I kept using her various insults for Clarissa.
> 
> Lastly, the sword work in this chapter is based off of medieval fighting manuals, mostly german and italian with some spanish. While it is unlikely that Clarissa would have learned german-style techniques (as the closest equivalent in Westeros is the North, which is still more Nordic) those are the most readily available and the ones I was trained in. Given that Dorne is partially based on Spain (specifically Andalucia) the spanish techniques are what she'd be most trained in, but those are harder to find. The Free Cities, from what I can tell and find, are partially based on medieval Italy, which was a hodge-podge of republics, duchies, and minor lordships with the Papal States at the center and foreign powers hungry to absorb them all. Given Dorne's proximity to the Three Daughters and Clarissa's braavosi tutor I found it likely that she'd have learned from them.  
> If you've made it this far, congratulations!
> 
> Sorry for the rant, swordplay is something I've long been fascinated in and have some experience with.

**The Lioness of (the) Pride**

They had barely finished the latest presentations. Ever since her  _ dear husband _ had expanded the prize purses to ridiculous proportions, knights and nobles of varying quality had been streaming into King’s Landing, all entering the tourney. Hundreds of noblewomen and girls had come as well to watch the tourney, and maybe snag a husband.  _ Fools, _ Cersei thought as the Dornish party began to be introduced.  _ Little do they know how painful marriage truly is _ .

“Perros Blackmont,” the seneschal said. “Squire to Ser Deziel Dalt.” Cersei forced herself to smile, nodding blandly at the child.  _ I should have been born a boy, _ she thought, not for the first time.  _ I would have conquered the world. _

“Ser Deziel Dalt, Knight of Lemonwood.” Still smiling placidly, Cersei nodded at the knight. He’d probably be entering the joust, along with everyone else.  _ Dear gods the qualifying rounds will be long _ . Being the queen she would have to attend, next to her increasingly drunk husband. That was something she did not look forward to. Then again, she looked forward to little and less besides her husband’s death since Jaime had deserted her and their children.

“Lady Clarissa Sand of House Dayne!” the seneschal declared. The girl stepped forward, a small white dog at her side, and Cersei did a double-take. Deeply confused, she looked the girl up and down, and saw that many were doing the same. She was tall, likely taller than Jaime truth be told. She was muscled, her arms bare as they hung out of her dress. Her dress, of course, was overly revealing. The tops of her breasts were visible, as were the ends of her thighs. A belt was around her waist, and a sheathed sword was in it. Yet despite all this, she was beautiful. Not as beautiful as Cersei, of course, but she was the blonde Lannister queen. Yet Cersei could not deny that there was something exotic and enchanting about her dark curling hair, her wide hips and prominent bust, her sparkling lilac eyes, and her well-defined muscles that contrasted with everything else.

“Daughter of Lady Ashara Dayne and Lord Eddard Stark!” the seneschal declared. The girl glared at Prince Oberyn and the seneschal. The seneschal gulped while the prince smirked.  _ Some kind of dornish prank? _ Cersei wondered. The whole room was reacting to Eddard Stark’s second bastard daughter with gasps. “Revenge of the Red Mountains! The Born Blade, the Heir to Starfall, the Knight of High Hermitage, and the Sword of Morning!”

“What?” was exclaimed several times. Most noticeably, by Ser Balon Swann, the most recent of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Boros Blount, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Mandon Moore. Five of the seven. All of the Kingsguard, save Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arys Oakheart.

“You?” Ser Balon Swann asked, incredulous, and laughed.

“From Arthur Dayne to. . . this,” Ser Boros Blount said, gesturing at the bastard.

“Far have they fallen,” agreed Ser Meryn Trant.

“I’d think her more liable for a whore house than a battlefield!” exclaimed Ser Mandon Moore. Cersei glared. Yes, the girl was clearly mad, but that was not to be said  _ in court _ .

“Your grace,” Ser Preston Greenfield said calmly. “Might we teach this bastard her place?” Robert sat up, anger in his face, when the bastard girl responded.

“I’d be happy to spar with you, fine Sers,” she said, a wild gleam in her eye. “Or would you prefer a duel?” That had the men pausing. They looked at each other, and the King started to laugh.

“She’s got spirit, alright!” Fat Robert said. “Any child of Ned’s would.”

“I get my spirit from my  _ mother _ , your grace,” the girl said coldly. “And my honor from her brother.” The room was silent. Robert was angry.

“If the girl wants to duel, I’ll let her,” he said in a growl. “Take this outside!”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan began, but he was cut off quickly as Fat Robert glared at him.

“If she wants to duel,” he said again, tone following his House’s motto. “I’ll let her.” He turned towards the court, his tone lightening. “A warm-up for the melee!” The court applauded nervously, and the Dornish party gathered quickly. Cersei peered over at them. It seemed the Prince Oberyn and one of his bastards were arguing with the dueling bastard. She seemed angry, and stormed away, stepping out and into the courtyard. Cersei wanted to watch more of this drama unfold. Normally the Red Keep gossip was about who was sleeping with who. It was useful, but not fun. Seeing a bastard get put in her place by five of  _ her _ kingsguard? One that seemed particularly important to both Eddard Stark and the Red Viper? That would be fun.

“Shall we go and watch, dear husband?” she asked. Robert looked her up and down quizzically.

“Yes,” he finally replied, standing up. Gods alone knew how he did that. “Let’s go!” he said to the court, as they made their way to the courtyard.

Entering the courtyard, Cersei could see the dornish bastards talking. Clarissa was in training leathers, deciding to forgo the armor that the Kingsguard was wearing. She embraced Prince Oberyn’s bastard, and gave her a kiss on the head.  _ Interesting _ , Cersei thought. Apparently this  _ was _ turning into a who’s sleeping with who situation.

“So!” the bastard yelled out, unsheathing her sword. The pale, milky color gave it away instantly, even more than the pommel and length did.  _ Dawn _ . “Is this a duel or a spar? Last man I fought wouldn’t answer. He decided stabbing me while shaking hands would be fun. He’s dead now.” The court was silent as they watched the bastard of Starfall taunting the Kingsguard, who now looked nervous. Even more, they looked angry that she had made them nervous.

“I will duel,” Ser Preston Greenfield declared, stepping forward with a smile.

“As will I,” Ser Mandon Moore said.

“And I,” Ser Balon Swann said with a grin.

“And I,” Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant said near the same time. The bastard smiled at them. The Kingsguard turned towards each other, while Prince Oberyn’s bastard place metal gauntlets and a helmet on the bastard of Starfall.

“I will go first,” Ser Meryn Trant declared, swinging his sword from side to side.

“What, we’re not doing this all at once?” she asked. “At least make this interesting!”

“Very well,” Ser Mandon said, lowering his visor. “All at once.” The other kingsguard smiled, and those with them lowered their visors. The bastard of Starfall smiled and raised her guard.

“Do try not to kill her,” the fat king said. “She’s still Ned’s daughter.” The bastard girl glared, showing her emotions for once. Her eyes were fire as she stared first at the fat king, then at her father, who flinched. Finally, she turned back to the Kingsguard.  _ Interesting girl, _ Cersei thought.  _ I may regret her dying so quickly. _

Ser Balon Swann moved first. He charged at the girl, sword held back, ready for a single, viscous swing. Clarissa moved as he came close, her arms unfurling from the high guard, stretching out as she lunged, the point of Dawn stretched forward. She held the blade in one hand, pointed towards Ser Balon’s chest.

Ser Balon didn’t react quick enough. He was not a small man, nor a lithe one. He tried to move his shield down, tried to stop, but his momentum carried him forwards. The dornish bitch lunged at the perfect time, her force meeting his. Dawn pierced his breastplate and broke his ribs, but it was Ser Balon’s momentum that threw his heart onto the blade. Clarissa, the Bastard of Starfall, pulled out her sword. Ser Balon collapsed, falling to and bleeding on the ground. The court, the guards, the Kingsguard, the King, even Cersei herself, were silent bar their gasps, their eyes wide as saucers. The Bastard of Starfall readied her blade, this time in a lower-right guard.

“Who’s next?” she asked. The four remaining Kingsguard in the field roared, each yelling some battlecry that was lost in the medly. They were enraged over their brother, the shame this bastard girl had forced upon them, enraged of the actions of the court and the nervous energy she had inflicted them.

Clarissa waited for them again. The Kingsguard had to run across more than half the courtyard. As they came closer, Clarissa crouched low. She ran forward, then leapt into the air. She twisted her body as the Kingsguard struck out at her, all of them missing. As she fell, she punched out with her right, her fist knocking Ser Meryn Trant forward as he stumbled. She landed neatly, easily moving into a proper guard position. She sliced down as the Kingsguard turned, her blade cutting into Ser Mandon Moore’s shoulder, easily breaking through his armor. Ser Mandon yelled, dropping his shield as he grimaced, moving forward. Clarissa held her blade in the high guard as the Kingsguard approached. She crouched low, forcing them to attack down wards. She retreated slowly, each swing blocked by a deft, slight movement, her blade pivoting from where she held it.

As Clarissa continued retreating, backing towards the edge of the crowd, she sunk lower. She stopped retreating for a split second, then launched off her back foot. She came upwards and twisted as she did. Her shoulder caught Ser Meryn Trant in the chest, knocking him to the ground as her blade swung upwards. Held upwards and aimed high, as she leapt the blade sliced through Ser Boros Blount’s neck, decapitating him as the crowd went silent again.

Clarissa landed on Ser Meryn and quickly moved, rolling off him as his sworn brother’s stikes both landed on his shield. Sword in hand she move gracefully, her advances smoother than any Cersei had ever seen.  _ How? _ she wondered. She raged, angrier than she had been since the day Jaime left.  _ How dare this bastard defeat my Kingsguard! _ Her sword swept up and pivoted down, her crossguard or blade catching every strike as she pushed her three opponents back towards the crowd. She moved quickly, veering in different directions, forcing them apart. As the came closer to the crowd, she feinted, foot beginning to move right. Ser Mandon Moore, her opponent on the left, took the bait. He stepped forward, sword swinging towards where she should be. Clarissa stepped left instead, her right foot landing across from Ser Mandon’s as her blade cut deeper, slicing through his flesh and bone. Dawn cut deep, and Clarissa quickly pulled it back. Ser Mandon stumbled, and Clarissa Sand, the Bastard of Starfall, dared to stab Cersei’s own Kingsguard, the one  _ sworn as her sword _ , between the eyes.

The blade pushed through Ser Mandon’s skull as the two remaining Kingsguard charged at her. Clarissa pivoted, blade still inside Ser Mandon, and kicked the deceased knight off it. He landed at Ser Preston Greenfield’s feet, who barely managed to leap over him. Clarissa parried Ser Meryn Trant’s attack, dodged that of Ser Preston. Ser Meryn attacked again, moving forward quickly. Clarissa stepped into his attack, her left fist punching his elbow as the man dropped his sword, her right shoulder slamming into his chest, forcing the man to stumble back. Ser Preston took advantage of this, moving to swing down at her. Clarissa moved quickly, though not quick enough, as his blade caught her gauntlet and sliced into her skin. She grimaced, then smiled as slammed the pommel of Dawn into Ser Preston’s nose. She stepped back, clenching her teeth as Ser Preston’s sword sliced down her hand, and moved Dawn.

She did not kill Ser Preston then. Ser Meryn had come back, and had taken Ser Mandon’s sword. He swung it at Clarissa, who parried with Dawn. Ser Preston charged, and she retreated, parrying the two men as the attacked in rapid succession, forcing her to move across the courtyard. But they were wearing a full set of armor, and she was not. They began to lag as the group came under the King and Queen’s box once more. Clarissa looked fresh as ever, smiling as her hair stuck to her body with sweat. Ser Meryn lunged at her, and she easily turned it aside. She moved forwards, feinting at Ser Meryn. Ser Preston sliced towards her head. Clarissa raised Dawn, catching Ser Preston’s blade on the flat of her sword. His blade slid down, and Clarissa slammed her head into his. Ser Preston stumbled, and Clarissa turned back to Ser Meryn. Her blade swung from the high guard. His lashed out at her head. His arm dropped as her blade swept through his neck, falling harshly onto her shoulder, but not breaking through the leather.

Pivoting, Clarissa looked down at Ser Preston.

“Yield,” she said. Ser Preston spat and charged. Clarissa stepped to the side, leg stuck out. Ser Preston tripped, then fell when Clarissa punched the back of his head with her armored gauntlet. “Yield,” she said again. Again he refused, standing. She moved first this time, a neat lunge. He blocked it with his shield, which Dawn broke through. He stepped forwards, swinging at her head. Clarissa stepped into his swing, her left hand catching his right, holding it and his sword aloft. She slammed her head into his, then again. She shoved him, pulling her sword from his shield. She recovered first and lunged with a feint. His shield moved up to block her strike, but her blade shifted angles, becoming closer to parallel as it sliced into his neck then down, into his collarbone. His sword, moving towards her, faltered as her own hit. The strike, which should have been true, merely grazed her side. Clarissa drew back her blade, the sharp edge slicing Ser Preston’s flesh as it moved. Ser Preston stood for a second, hand pressed to his wound as he gurgled. He collapsed, and the courtyard was silent. Clarissa Sand removed her helmet, and bowed toward the king.

“Your grace,” she said, and turned away, heading back to the Dornish party. They cheered, as did some of the smallfolk and servants. Fat Robert glowered, and his dear Ned Stark looked stunned. Truth be told, most of the court looked stunned, even Cersei, though she would never admit it.


	12. Clarissa V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The welcoming feast gives Clarissa and Nymeria the perfect opening to have some fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the late update this time and last. This chapter is a long and smutty one, I hope that makes up for it.

**A Sword on Fire**

“Are you sure I still have to go to the feast?” Clarissa asked. She had just finished bathing and drying, and now Nymeria was sorting through her dresses. The direwolf pup, who she had still yet to name, was curled into her side. He’d tuckered himself out playing earlier, leaping all over Clarissa and Nymeria.

“Really?” Nymeria asked, turning towards her, an eyebrow raised. “Willing to challenge five members of the Kingsguard at once, afraid of a dance? This is the woman I’m sleeping with?”

“Yep!” Clarissa said happily, moving towards her, dressed only in smallclothes. Nymeria turned around, and Clarissa wrapper her arms around her lover, pressing a quick peck to her neck. “Alright, I surrender,” she said jestingly. “Any ideas for the dress?”

“How about this one?” Nymeria asked, pointing towards a light pink. “It’s either that or the mint green one, everything else is too yellow and Baratheon.” Clarissa groaned.

“Why does the one of the worst houses get one of the few colors that work with my skin and my eyes?”

“I know dear,” Nymeria said, turning around. She gently kissed Clarissa on the lips. “The world is so unfair.” Clarissa smiled and kissed her back.

“It always seems better when you’re around,” Clarissa said, putting her dress on. Her hair fell neatly, forming large ringlets that extended past her shoulders and down her back. She moved to the looking glass and opened her box of cosmetics. Mixing the red powder with water, she painted it onto her lips. She then spread a faint silver powder sparingly across her eye lids, and used the Lyseni mascara to call attention to her lashes. Smiling, she turned towards Nymeria.

“Am I ready?” she asked, briefly twirling. The dress was long for a dornish dress, falling past the knees, but it was almost scandalous for most of Westeros. It was cut fairly low too, though higher than her previous dresses. Nymeria looked her up and down, then nodded.

“You’re gorgeous. No one would guess you killed five men today.” Clarissa laughed and put on her woven leather belt. Dawn, recently cleaned, was inside its sheath, hanging on the belt. Nymeria sighed.

“Sorry dear,” Clarissa said, pressing a kiss to the top of Nymeria’s head. “I’m the Sword of Morning. I can’t really go somewhere without Dawn. Besides, I don’t want to be caught unprepared,” she said, her voice turning dark and her eyes clouding over. “Not like I was with Edric.”

“It’s okay darling,” Nymeria said, kissing Clarissa’s cheek. Her hands rubbed into Clarissa’s shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension. “Come on, let’s go to the feast. Rumor has it Margaery Tyrell likes girls, let’s see if we can nab a rose.” Clarissa smiled, her lilac eyes growing dark as she thought of seducing Olenna Redwyne’s prize pupil.

“Yes,” Clarissa said hungrily. “Let’s.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

When Clarissa and Nymeria entered the feast hall, every eye was on them. They were beautiful, even with the daggers hidden across Nymeria’s body and Dawn hanging from Clarissa’s belt. Clarissa smiled and whispered to Nymeria.

“They’re all staring at you, you know,” Clarissa said.

“Really?” Nymeria asked. “Why’s that?” Clarissa smirked impishly as the two moved to the edge between the Dornish and Reach groups.

“You’ve got lettuce between your teeth.” Nymeria laughed as they sat down, both signalling for some wine to be brought over.

“I didn’t even eat lettuce today!”

“It’s been there since yesterday.” Nymeria’s hand flew to her mouth and Clarissa laughed, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head.

“Sorry love, it’s just  _ so easy _ !” Nymeria playfully shoved Clarissa off her and turned towards the feast.

“Dear gods,” Clarissa said, looking at the spread. The pies were covered in gold leaf, everything was the most expensive cuts of meat, and eight types of wine were offered, each in limitless quantity. “No wonder the crown’s in so much debt.”

“What do you mean?” asked the knight sitting across from them.

“Who might you be?” Clarissa asked. The young man stuck his hand out, and Clarissa hesitantly took it.

“Ser Raymund Tyrell,” he said. “Distant relation, the son of the son of Lord Tyrell’s cousin.”

“Dear gods,” Clarissa repeated, shaking his hand. “I am gladder than ever that my family limited itself to a main branch and a cadet.” Ser Raymund laughed. “What brings you here ser?”

“The tourney, of course!” he declared. “Mostly for the money. I had hoped to be a dark horse in the melee, but--” he paused, gesturing towards her. “The winner seems fairly obvious.” Clarissa laughed.

“Anything can happen on a battlefield,” she said, her smile wide but eyes dark. “A large man can be cut down by a hidden child with a dagger. A mountain can be felled with a punch.”

“Oh, shit!” Ser Raymund said. “I forgot about the  _ Mountain _ .”

“We Dornish never do,” Clarissa said, her eyes showing a cold fury. “Justice!” she called out. The conversations amongst the Dornish Party immediately halted as all raised their glasses and replied, “Justice!” The whole feast turned towards them, staring as they went back to their quiet conversations. Nymeria leaned over to Clarissa.

“Why did you do that?” she asked in exasperation. “I swear, you’re as impulsive as my father.” Clarissa turned towards her, eyes glittering.

“Who do you think I learned it from?” Nymeria rolled her eyes and playfully shoved Clarissa, turning back to her own conversation.

“Where were we?” Clarissa asked, looking back at Ser Raymund.

“I believe--”

“Cousin!” a loud voice from behind him exclaimed. Clarissa looked up, was confused, then looked again. The man behind Ser Raymund was tall, taller than her. He had thick-set shoulders and was well-muscled. He had a head of curly brown hair and a well-groomed beard. The smile coming from beneath it was warm, genuine. He wore a tunic, belted, with a sword hanging from it. His tunic was green, with two golden roses, stacked on top of each other.  _ Well, _ Clarissa thought.  _ That is a man. _

“It’s been too long,” the man said, looking down at Ser Raymund.

“We left and arrived in the same group,” Ser Raymund said.

“And yet I haven’t seen you since Highgarden.”

“You would have had your father hadn’t brought his whole household with him,” Ser Raymund replied, full of snark. Clarissa quirked her eyebrow questioningly, and the tall man laughed. Squeezing in next to Ser Raymond, he held out his hand.

“Ser Garlan Tyrell, second son of Mace Tyrell.” Clarissa took his hand and shook it.

“I must say Ser,” Clarissa said, batting her eyelashes once as she leaned in. “You certainly are a welcome surprise.” Ser Garlan smiled back, a faint smirk hidden beneath it.

“As are you, my lady,” he said, picking up her hand and kissed it. Clarissa smiled.

“I take it you were present during that whole display?” she asked.

“No, but I have heard tell. I  _ did  _ see the King glaring at you.”

“Both King and Queen have been glaring at me since before I killed their best bullies,” Clarissa said with a laugh. “They weren’t particularly good anyways. Not as good as I’ve heard you are.” Garlan raised his eyebrow, looking questioningly at her.

“How have you heard of me?” Clarissa smiled teasingly before responding.

“Your brother is a good friend of Prince Oberyn,” she said. “Who once was my mentor.”

“And your paramour’s father, from what I can tell,” Ser Garlan said with a smirk. “Don’t fear, we in the reach are not as judgemental as many perceive us to be. Save for the Hightowers and Florents, that is.” Clarissa laughed loudly, smiling wide at Garlan.

“That is good to know, Ser,” she said, eyes darkening as she stared into his. “Do you, perhaps, have a paramour of your own?”

“Perhaps,” Ser Garlan replied, leaning in towards Clarissa. “Though none with set rules or restrictions.” Ser Raymund decided this would be an ideal time to move. He awkwardly stood up and shifted a few places, sitting down far, far, away from the conversation his cousin was having.

“Neither does mine,” Clarissa said. “Though I fear she may not be interested in you.” Clarissa looked over at Nymeria, catching her eye. She raised her eyebrow, and Clarissa shrugged. With a coy smile tugging at her lips, Nymeria bent her head, then turned back to her own conversation.

“But you are?” Garlan asked, raising his eyebrow once more. Clarissa smiled. She downed her glass of wine and, with a wink, left the table. Garlan looked around, trying to make sure he was interpreting this correctly. Gods, Margaery would be laughing at him if she saw him like this. Thankfully she was--

“Go after her brother,” her soft voice said from behind him. Garlan frowned, them chuckled and stood up.

“You are much better at these hidden signs than I,” Garlan said. Margaery rolled her eyes.

“Yes, and the Florents still think Highgarden is their right, we need not repeat the obvious.” Garlan laughed, then followed Margaery’s eyes towards Nymeria. She turned back towards him with a smirk. “I suppose tonight will test just how much endurance this Sword of Morning has.” Garlan smiled at her, his eyes hungry as he left the feast. He walked quickly up the stairs, smiling as he saw Clarissa waiting for him just down the corridor.

“Finally!” she said a smile on her face. “I thought you’d taken up your brother’s preferences.” Garlan started to talk, but Clarissa stepped forward, pressing her lips into his. They were soft, softer than he’d thought such a tough woman could be. Her hands held themselves around his neck as she leaned backwards.

“So,” Clarissa said breathily, looking into Garlan’s eyes. His pupils were wide, the edges blending into the large brown eyes that seemed to be a family characteristic. “Your room?” Garlan nodded,  bending his knees to pick her up bridal style.

“Oof!” Clarissa said, her arms still wrapped around his neck. She laughed lightly, burying her head into his chest. His beard scratched lightly against her scalp, and she smiled, looking up at him. “Not many can do that with me.” Garlan smiled as he walked towards his room.

“I am able to do many things,” Garlan said, holding her with one arm as he opened the door. He closed it, and Clarissa slid gently from his arm. “Some that others can,” he said, gently pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Some,” he continued, hands finding her ass, hoisting her up as her hands moved back to his neck. Their lips intertwined, pulling at each other. “Some that others cannot.” His head bent down, trimmed beard scratching against her neck. She felt the energy run through her, a quick shake of anticipation before he sucked at her neck, drawing her soft flesh into his mouth. Clarissa’s head rolled back as she exposed more of her neck to him, letting out a soft moan. Her flesh left Garlan’s mouth with a wet pop, and his head moved, beard scratching her neck again as he latched onto another part of her throat. Her legs, strong and muscled from years of training, wrapped around his waist, allowing his hands to wander across her body. They teased up her side, flowing down over the barely-clad breasts as he bit down on her neck and she moaned again. Her own hands pulled up the skirt of her dress, pushing her smallclothes to the side. Garlan’s fingers found their way down to her, easily sliding in as Clarissa moaned louder, her head resting against the wooden door.

“Eager for this, aren’t you?” Garlan teased. Clarissa tried to respond, but his fingers brushed against her g-spot, causing her hip to roll forward as a soft gasp flew from her lips. She levered her body closer, leaning into the crook of his neck. She kissed and sucked at the tender flesh, leaving a trail meant to be found.

“F-fighting and wine,” she finally managed to say. “Always get my--oh  _ gods _ Garlan!” His fingers slipped in and out of her faster, thumb rubbing against her clit. Soon she came undone, screeching his name. She paused, breathing heavily, and unfurled her arms and legs, sliding back onto the floor. She looked up at Garlan, eyes still turned violet with a lusty haze. She pushed him backwards, onto his bed. She moved quickly, unlacing his boots and breeches, then relieving him of both (and his smallclothes) in a single pull. Her own smallclothes and dress joined the small pile on the floor. She bent over, slowly kissing up his thighs. He let out a deep, guttural moan as she kissed his cock. She slid her tongue down its side and lower, sucking in one of his balls, then the other. She let them go with a pop and teased her tongue back up his cock. She moved, straddling him, lowering herself and sinking onto him as their moans joined in the air.

“Fuck,” Garlan said in a lusty moan. “Fighting and wine?”

“Fighting and wine,” Clarissa replied in agreement. Garlan smiled, then flipped them, pressing his torso into Clarissa’s. She let out a yelp, which Garlan met with a kiss.

“I look forward to the tourney.”


	13. Oberyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dornish gather to process the events of previous chapters. Oberyn meets the small council

**The Wrong Prince**

“So. How long until your brother censures us?”

“Us?” Prince Oberyn asked, scandalized. “I am sure he will write  _ you _ , and soon, but what have the rest of us done?” His false tones brought laughter from the whole party. Even Lord Dagos Manwoody managed a chuckle.

“Oh, come now my prince,” Lord Dagos said, in his deep, reverberating voice. His tone still carried the humor from his chuckle. “Prince Doran will find a way to blame all of us, the two of you most of all.”

“It’s your own fault,” Clarissa said, smiling. “You did mentor me.” Oberyn sighed, leaning back into the soft couch.

“I knew I should’ve avoided you,” he said ruefully as a smile played on his lips. “Last Sword of Morning managed to humiliate me in the Water Gardens, you do it in court!” He shook his head in mock horror.

“Glad to know your heart is in the right place, your grace,” Lady Myria Jordayne said with a smile. “Focus on her ignoring your advice, not her killing five members of the Kingsguard.” The group chuckled at that.

“As much trouble as it’s likely caused,” Ser Deziel said. “It was quite satisfying to see. And, technically, done with the King’s permission.”

“Exactly!” Clarissa exclaimed. “How mad could Prince Doran be? It’s not like I undercut him and tried to start a war,” she said, glancing at Oberyn. He glared at her, then sighed.

“However my brother decides to deal with this,” he said. “It is clear that we need a more. . .  _ cohesive _ strategy in the capitol.” The nobles nodded. Even Clarissa did, though only after Nymeria elbowed her in the ribs. Her initial non-response was not due to lack of agreement, however. Clarissa had instead started nodding off, though she had a good excuse. After stumbling out of Garlan Tyrell’s rooms half-spent she’d happened upon the sight of Margaery Tyrell’s head between Nymeria’s legs. She’d had to join in of course, but it  _ had _ left her exhausted.

“I recently found out why the King wanted us here,” Lady Larra Blackmont said. “He believes we were planning to ship the Dothraki and Viserys here.” The room rolled its eyes and Prince Oberyn scoffed.

“Based on what?”

“There were some ships from Yronwood and Wyl in the Pentos harbor during the wedding. Ser Ryon Allyrion was also there.” Oberyn’s brows furrowed as he turned to his former squire.

“Ser Daemon, do you know anything about this?”

“No, your grace,” Daemon said, shaking his head. “Kicking me out of Godsgrace was a part of the Yronwood marriage contract.” Oberyn sighed, his hands running through his scalp.

“Where is my elder nephew?”

“Most likely at Yronwood,” Ser Symon said, but Lord  Tremond Gargalen shook his head, frowning.

“He passed through Salt Shore not to long ago,” Lord Tremond said. “He was coming back from Planky Town and headed north, towards Vaith and Godsgrace.”

“I have a cousin who works in Vaith,” one of the guards said. “Said Prince Quentyn was there a few weeks ago. Asked her about the road up to Ghost Hill.” Prince Oberyn sighed.

“Fuck,” he said, quite articulately. “So, we’re looking at Yronwood, Wyl, Vaith, Allyrion, and Toland. Anyone else?”

“There’s been a lot of Tyroshi ships in Planky Town lately,” Ser Deziel said. Prince Oberyn closed his eyes, then opened them.

“Okay. We stay put, for now. Daemon, I want you to take the letter I’ll write and send it off with a raven. Don’t use the one here, ride to the Dun Fort. They’re good people.” Ser Daemon nodded. “Clarissa, try not to kill anyone else just yet, we’ll need you to do that later. Everyone else, be yourself. That’ll freak out these prudes more than anything else.” The group laughed, moving out of Oberyn’s rooms and towards their own.

Oberyn stood and made his way to the Small Council room. That was Jon Arryn’s cover for holding a Prince of Dorne hostage in King’s Landing, offering them a seat on the small council. He’d go, of course, and tweak everyone’s nose, but he’d sooner shake the Mountain’s hand than help the Usurper rule.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

When Oberyn approached the Small Council room, he could hear yelling and chuckled to himself. Walking into the room, he realized the one yelling was Ned Stark.

“WE’RE ACTUALLY USING WHAT HE SAID?!” the Warden of the North and King’s best friend shouted. Oberyn saw a bemused smirk on Renly’s lips. He didn’t trust the stormlord, but he and the Tyrell boy were careless and useful.

“My lord,” a soft voice said. Oberyn looked and saw the bald Essosi he’d heard so much about. He’d been intrigued by the man’s spy network ever since he found out about the real plans for Harrenhal. Before Rhaegar had destroyed everything. “If we do not, it will be a public show that the crown is in financial trouble.”

“Besides,” a weasley voice began. Oberyn turned to see the small man, bearing an untrustworthy mustache. “The loans have already been arranged.” Ned Stark groaned and sat back down.

“Fine,” he said. “I don’t want panic in the streets.” Oberyn, deciding he’d loitered enough, sat down in the empty chair next to the Spider, across from the small rat of a man with a permanent smile and eyes that viewed the world as a series of numbers he could manipulate. “Lord Renly, how is the tourney shaping up?” Lord Renly cleared his throat, then gave another faint smile, almost wistful.

“It is shaping up to be the largest in history, Lord Hand,” Lord Renly said. “Larger even than the Tourney at Harrenhal.” Oberyn glared at Renly for that, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Ned Stark flinch. Figures. Both their lives had been tossed like so much salad in those few days.

“How many?” Lord Renly shuffled some parchment, pulling out a large roll and unfurling it.

“Registration closed earlier today,” he said, looking over the sheets. “The first qualifying round of jousts will be held today. We have two hundred eight people signed up for the joust, including a good many lords. The melee is like to be a crowded event, and the craftsmen are currently working to expand the field. Two-and-seventy nobles and knights have entered that event, along with over one hundred sellswords and hungry young men. We can only expand the field to fit one hundred, and so must have qualifying rounds for that event as well.” Ned Stark sighed. “Lastly, the archery contest is a smaller draw, with only thirty participants.”

“Do we have enough food and drink?” Ned Stark asked, seeming to fold into himself, hating that he was in charge of this. Oberyn almost laughed at how perfect it was. The Usurper was punishing his loyal dog better than Dorne ever could.

“We think so,” Lord Renly said. “There are seats enough for five-thousand people to watch. If this tourney follows Tyrion Lannister’s formula for average attendance drop-off after the first day and pick-up as the matches begin to become actual contests, we have more than enough.” Ned Stark looked like his head hurt. Oberyn was glad he’d studied mathematics at the Citadel, he doubted Lord Renly even truly understood what he was saying.

“Since when are you friends with the imp?” the weasley lord asked. Lord Renly turned to look at the small man, faint smile still on both their faces.

“Remind me Baelish,” Renly said, his smile turning into a wide smirk.  _ Baelish,  _ Oberyn thought.  _ Rings a bit of a bell _ . “How long have you bragged of certain . . . exploits during your fostering at Riverrun?” Baelish smiled back at Renly, his eyes throwing daggers.

“This is hardly relevant,” Baelish said, forcing calm playfulness into his tone. Renly looked ready to speak, but Ned Stark cut him off.

“Enough you two. Baelish, bring me a list of everything we’re spending money on, I’ll see if we can keep the King to a budget. Meeting adjourned.”

As they all walked away, Oberyn lingered, following the man called Baelish. He seemed an interesting sort, as was the bald essosi. He walked silently behind the man as he prowled the Red Keep. He whispered to the right people, hidden gestures and payments were granted. Baelish was good at avoiding a tail, but not good enough to find Oberyn. He was careful, but knew his position as a minor lord protected him from the attentions of others. Baelish felt safer than he should, especially given what Oberyn heard between the walls, in a room Baelish and his man clearly thought were secret.

Walking out, heading towards the tourney grounds, Oberyn wondered what he should do about what he learned. Doran would know better than he, but by the time ravens have been exchanged, it would likely be too late to do anything useful. Perhaps he should leave them alone, as the Usurper drank himself into an early grave and his squire threw coveting glances towards the Queen. Glances which she pretended to return. Perhaps he could recruit him. No, trusting Baelish would be a terrible mistake. Maybe he should blackmail him. That could be useful. Gods knew Baelish had more than enough money to bribe someone. He was from a minor house, free of these strange demands that great houses not invest in trade or craftsmen. There was that, and the two million dragons he’d stolen from the treasury.  _ Money that should’ve been Aegon’s to spend _ , Oberyn thought.  _ He would’ve been a good ruler. Better than his father, better than the Mad King, better than the Usurper. _ Oberyn blinked and bit down on his lips, trying to keep water from welling in his eyes. He hated this city. Hated the King and his Queen. Hated the Red Keep where his sister, niece, and nephew had died, hated the courtiers who came and went, yet stayed silent when Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys had been presented to the Usurper, covered in blood and red cloth. Hated Ned Stark, who had stood up in one moment, then bent the knee as he went back north. Oberyn could’ve screamed. Maybe he’d be pitted against that monstrosity, Gregor Clegane. He’d aim to kill if he met him during the joust. He didn’t doubt that Clarissa would too, as would Obara. Obara remembered Elia, and Clarissa had never met her, but had heard Ashara’s tales, his and Nymeria’s as well.

That had been surprising. More than when Ashara’s babe was born with a rising sun on her wrist, warning Arthur his time was coming. More than her besting him at the age of thirteen, more than her playful friendship with Syrio Forel. He had hardly expected the two to be friends, let alone the close lovers that they were. Hell, Nymeria had never stuck with a partner longer than a few months before Clarissa. He could see the two of them together as he walked down the hillside, towards the pavillions. Clarissa was wearing armor, something that she (and he) normally scoffed at. It was, however, needed in a joust, where it was near impossible to miss. Clarissa was glaring towards the Usurper’s pavillion, and Oberyn did not doubt who she was glaring at.

Clarissa had her own reasons for hating the Usurper, Tywin Lannister, and the rest. She blamed her father for abandoning Ashara, for turning up only to return Dawn after stabbing her uncle in the back. She blamed the Usurper’s arrogance as much as Rhaegar’s vanity for the war, as well as Ned Stark’s blind loyalty and the power-hungry greed of Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully. Aerys was mad and needed to leave, that much was obvious. Viserys was already becoming like him as well. Rhaegar had stolen a betrothed woman, refused to let her return home, all for some strange prophecy he seemed to have created in his mind. They should have made Aegon king, he was right in front of them. Until Tywin’s beast crushed his head into a wall and Lorch had stabbed Rhaenys until she turned into a pincushion.

“Oberyn!” He turned his head, seeing Clarissa in front of him, his own daughter beside him. Clarissa’s hand was on his shoulder, its grip tight. Both were staring at him, eyes full of worry.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat, wiping sweat from his face as if it would carry the bad memories away with it. “Got--got lost in memories.” Clarissa gave him a quick grimace, and Nymeria quickly moved to hug him, an embrace he readily returned. As she finally pulled back, he turned his attention to the field. The melee arena was one of the largest he’d seen, that much was true. There was a joust underway, some Stark guard against a Vale guard he’d never seen. “Clarissa,” he said. “Are you jousting today?”

“That I am,” Clarissa replied with a thin smile. “Despite the King’s best efforts to have me thrown out.”

“He should’ve known better,” Oberyn replied jestingly. “Both your damn parents are stubborn, it was guaranteed you’d turn out that way.” A shadow crossed over Clarissa’s face as she turned her head to glare at the Usurper’s box again. His daughter glared at him, and Oberyn grimaced. “Sorry Clarissa. Who are you facing?” Clarissa took in a deep breath, then let another out before turning towards him. Nymeria wrapped her arm around Clarissa’s armored waist, leaning her head on her shoulder.

“Depends on if I win,” Clarissa replied with more than a hint of cheek. Oberyn rolled his eyes and looked at her pointedly. “Okay, fine. First is some idiot named Emmon Cuy, I’ve asked around, his squire doesn’t know how to saddle a horse. He’ll probably fall off if I just lob the damn lance at him. Assuming I beat him, it’ll be Lord Renly, he already won his first match.”

“So,” Oberyn said with a laugh. “I’m the one with the hard schedule.”

“Harder than mine anyways, for the next two days at least. A few of the hedge knights look good.”

“Of course they do. Unlike Lord Renly’s pretty rose, they’ve had to  _ actually _ fight.” Clarissa raised her eyebrow.

“Which helps how with these enclosed lanes?” Oberyn shrugged, a coy smile crossing his face.

“They’ll know how to improvise. Beware the aged and experienced,” he called out, walking away. “We know more than you!” He heard Clarissa’s laughter as he swept away, orange cloak billowing after him.


	14. Clarissa VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarissa kicks ass at the Tourney

**The Lance of Morning**

Truth be told, nothing about the first day of the tournament was interesting, which was a relief to Clarissa. Nymeria had been insatiable the previous night, as had both Tyrells. Clarissa was too tired to joust with any serious amount of skill and was quite glad that none of her early matches required it. The fans were less pleased, as none of the matches held any surprises--except maybe when a hedge knight defeated Prince Joffrey. None were surprised that the Prince had lost--after all, they had seen his earlier poor performance and clearly bribed victory. What was surprising was that a hedge knight had defeated him, rather than take the hundreds (if not thousands) of gold dragons he had likely been offered to lose.

The feast was the usual King’s Landing excess, with the King getting drunk enough to try and grope the serving maids. After that bit, where the Queen glared and the girl screamed, Clarissa had to leave. Nymeria went with her, and they spent a quiet night in, though truthfully they were quite loud at times.

The first surprise came when four of the Freys, all knighted, lost the melee qualifying matches. They were held on the third and fourth days, while the jousting horses rested and they fixed the lanes. Clarissa was more than a little nervous for the next day, when she would be facing the monstrosity known as the Mountain. She wasn’t sure how she’d do. She knew if she focused, she could beat him easily. The man was extremely large and quite strong, but he had no skill. He allowed his reputation and brute strength to do all the work for him. Should she try to kill him? He’d killed the Vale knight on the first day, the lance running through the young man’s neck. Maybe she should aim between his eyes. His visor did have a large gap, possibly wide enough if she narrowed her lance heads.

But she’d have to pretend it was an accident. And some part of her hated that. He should be made to lie bleeding on the ground as he begged for forgiveness that would never come and admits to his crimes. The rest of her knew it would never happen, so long as he followed the Old Lion’s orders, and wanted to kill him now. So she left the melee qualifying rounds, having easily defeated two sellswords, and walked towards her tent to prepare the lances.

The day of the joust, she had Perros Blackwood acting as her squire. He would shine each lance as he handed it to her. He had done that the previous two days of jousting, but today was different. Today, the rag he rubbed over her lances was covered in one of Oberyn’s poisons, something that wouldn’t be noticeable for a few days. If she couldn’t kill him outright, she would not be a suspect.

She rode her favorite horse, a sand steed named Nymeria. It figured she’d like riding both Nymerias. Her shield was the Dayne coat of arms, daringly not changing any colors, forcing the court to acknowledge her as the true heir. She forced herself to bow towards the Usurper, and rode at his signal.

The Mountain had no technique. His lance was aimed broadly at her, expecting that she would be like most and be too afraid to do anything. Clarissa was different. Her own lance held steady, pointing towards his left upper neck (trying to loosen the plate he wore) she held her breath and, at the last minute, leaned away. Her lance hit the other side of his neck, breaking as it dented and tore at his armor. His blow missed her completely, and his curses were heard throughout the arena.

The second run, his lance was pointed high and outwards, dare she try the same trick again. She smiled, pointing her lance downwards as they began their charge. Halfway to the collision point, she leaned back, keeping her lance as low as she could. Her lighter saddle and looser armor allowed her to bend farther than any knight, passing under the Mountain’s lance, even as hers broke once more against his helm. As the third lance was placed into her hands, she could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. Then she saw it. A small crack in the ludicrously thick armor, and small piece of flesh she could hit. She needed to be exact on this. Her mind flooded with images of the Sack, with dead babes in red wrappings. She forced them to the side and charged.

This time, Clarissa kept to form. Her thighs tightened around her horse and she leaned in. Her eyes tracked that bit of flesh religiously, hoping her peripheral vision would be enough to see his lance and block it.

The Mountain did not ride in form. His anger, his largess, whatever it was, he left his shield hanging loosely by his side, his lance in a white-knuckle grip as he held it at her even as the horses moved.

They collided just over the halfway point. Nymeria was a fast horse. Clarissa’s lance dipped up, finding its mark. The altered wood, sharper and narrower than it was supposed to be, sliced into him as he yelled, then fell. The lance followed him down, the point shattering as it bounced out of his neck and then down, onto his armor. The woodchips flew across the field.

Clarissa’s arm hurt like hell. She had managed to catch his lance on her shield rather than her body, so that was a relief. Even so, it had twisted her in the saddle, yanking her arm back as he shield broke into pieces, joining both their lances as it flew across the field. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter when they carried the Mountain in a stretcher to a maester, it didn’t matter when she unhorsed Lord Beric Dondarrion on the second ride. Her head was in the clouds. The Mountain had been poisoned. No maester would detect it, Oberyn had assured her, especially not the useless Lannister croney in the Red Keep. Obara and Oberyn had won their rides as well. She doubted Oberyn had focused much on that either, his thoughts focused on Ser Gregor’s future painful death. Obara would be pleased about both. Hopefully enough to stop reminding people of Clarissa’s leg scar and the story that went with it.

Tomorrow they would ride in the fifth round of the joust, and in the quarter-finals, but for now, the Dornish party would drink and dance, though for a very different reason than the rest attending the Usurper’s feast.

The upsets of the tourney were honored at the feast. Obara had defeated Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, a feat that surprised everyone but the dornish. Obara was good in a saddle, and beyond excellent with spears, rivaling her father. And what is a lance if not a heavy, fancy spear? Ser Alyn Estermont had advanced and won five hundred dragons on a bet when he bested Lord Jason Mallister. True, Lord Mallister was a far better swordsman than jouster, but he was an experienced warrior, and his defeat by a fresh-faced knight was unexpected. Ser Hosman Norcross was the hero of the Reach, having defeated Ser Deziel Dalt, a member of the Dornish party. All the Reach, that is, save the Florents. He was a household knight of theirs, and supposed to bring honor to _ them _ not himself. Ser Axell Florent was glaring at him from across the room.

Lyman Darry was another upset. The betting odds had been against him in every round, yet he won them all. He was being celebrated largely by the Riverlands and Crownlands loyalists. The Dornish had others to be more proud of, though they loved throwing a Riverlands royalist in the King’s face. Clarissa herself had been counted as an upset, beating Lord Renly and Ser Aron Santagar, master-at-arms of the Red Keep. The betting odds had varied wildly from gambler to gambler. Many expected her to win, many expected her to lose. Few had expected her to defeat that Mountain, and even less to do it while wounding him. For that she was the hero of the Dornish tables, and to the Crownlands loyalists. Lord Monford Velaryon himself had congratulated her.

The largest surprise, however, had been Ser Pate of the Blue Fork. Ser Pate was a hedge knight, with decent armor and an old but sturdy horse. No one had expected him to win the first round, least of all defeat the Westerlands favorite, Ser Daven Lannister. But he had done both, and would face Prince Oberyn in the quarter-finals, if they both made their matches.

The betting for the melee was becoming interesting as well. It would not take place for two days, and yet several thousand dragons had already been wagered. The gamblers favored Clarissa, Ser Lyn Corbray, Lord Randyll Tarly, and Ser Garlan Tyrell, with a few betting on Thoros of Myr or Bronn the Sellsword.

After the feast, Nymeria gave Clarissa a very detailed and elaborate congratulatory present, for which Clarissa made sure to thank her thoroughly.


	15. Robert I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, observes the middle and closing days of his tournament  
> Content warning for alcoholism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the first chapter I've posted in five months. I don't really know what to say about that, other than that if y'all are willing to give me another shot at posting this, I'd be humbled and grateful.
> 
> In this chapter we see another effect of Jaime's book and flight. Without her brother, Cersei is even wilder and angrier, driving Robert futher into his cups as, lacking sand, he attempts to bury his head in wine.

**The Drunken Stag**

The crowd roared with approval when the first match showed up. Lord Beric Dondarrion was a well-liked lord, among nobles and the commons alike. Much to King Robert’s chagrin and annoyance, the Lady Clarissa Sand had become equally loved. She refused to play the courtly games the way people wanted, but still won. Her beauty and great strength, her victory over aloof members of the court and over men associated with the abuses of the Gold Cloaks had inspired the commons. At least, that’s what Lord Varys said. Robert didn’t know if he should trust him on that. The bald eunuch always made him uncomfortable. Maybe it was just because he couldn’t imagine life without wine and sex and the Spider partook in neither.

Speaking of which, King Robert took his chalice, larger than even the Mountain’s mug, and raised it to the crowd.

“Let the jousts begin!” he yelled, and the commons cheered again. Lord Beric and the bastard girl saluted each other before lowering visors. With the flip of a flag, they charged.

Lord Beric was a good man, and a good jouster. He had been one of the younger Stormlords, yet was still closer to Robert than Renly. It bothered Robert when the Stormlords showed his younger brother deference instead of him. They were his by right, damn it, regardless of whether he was sat on that pointy chair.

King Robert was pulled out of these thoughts by the roar of the crowd. He looked, and saw Beric Dondarrion being helped off the ground by Clarissa Sand. Damn it. He didn’t want to give that bastard any money, even if she’d probably win the melee. He was half-tempted to order Barristan and Ser Arys to fight in the melee, just to target her. Then again, that was no guarantee they would win. She had cut through the other five Kingsguard like they were butter.

The next joust was more fun. Lord Jacelyn Bywater, Captain of the Mudgate, was, perhaps, the only Gold Cloak who wasn’t corrupt, and the people loved him for it. Everyone who knew the Crownlands used the Mudgate when they could. It was the only one where they wouldn’t get extorted. Yet Lord Jacelyn still lost to Ser Arys of the Kingsguard, falling to the ground on the second tilt, to the groans of the commons and the cheers of the Reachmen.

That was, perhaps, the only thing he and his queen agreed upon, Robert thought as he drank deeply from his chalice. Neither of them liked the Reach, and they both liked Dorne less. Of course, for Cersei, she hated anyone who wasn’t a Lannister. For Robert, he found the Reachmen preachy and all flash while the Dornish just pissed him off. He had the feeling that, at least with Prince Oberyn, that was intentional. If only the court could be made of Stormlanders and Northmen.

The next few rounds went by quickly. Ser Barristan unhorsed Oberyn’s bastard girl, something that made Robert smile. The hedge knight managed to pull off another win, much to the delight of the commons. Hell, even Robert was happy about this man, whoever the hell he was. A couple more wins and he’d be richer than most minor lords!

Robert was on his fourth chalice of wine when the quarter-final round began. Lyman Darry, now that was a name he fucking hated, was riding against Ser Barristan. Lyman Darry wasn’t even knighted, yet he’d made it here. The Crownlands and Riverlands dragonspawn-obsessed rape-defenders were cheering for him, something that made Robert even angrier. Yes, Velaryon, Thorne, Rosby, Mooton, Whent and Darry had all bent the knee, but Mooton, Darry, and Whent had all defied their liege-lord to defend King Scab. Fuck them.

Robert cheered loudest of all when the Bold struck Lyman Darry from the saddle on the third tilt. He was still smiling when the Hound knocked the Whitehead heir off his horse. When the hedge knight, after breaking lance against lance with Prince Oberyn, finally ended the tilt, breaking his lance while dodging the Prince’s, Robert laughed and happily declared the hedge knight the victor.

His humor was gone immediately when Ser Arys and Lady Clarissa took to the field. At first, he had hoped for another bout to go his way. Instead, Arys almost fell off on the first tilt, while the Dayne bastard was untouched. They broke another three lances each, and Robert hoped Ser Arys could tie the score by the tenth tilt, so he could award him the victory. He finished his fifth chalice of wine and refilled it, drinking deeply. He spat it out when Ser Arys flew from his saddle, and the bitch gracefully (for there was no other word for it, much as Robert hated to admit it) slid from her saddle and helped him up.

Robert was still fuming at the feast, though he managed to drown it in alcohol. He groped at serving women, too drunk to hear their shrieks of horror or see Cersei’s glares, and far, far too drunk to be able to remember any of it the next day. Prince Oberyn had brought the hedge knight that unhorsed him to the feast. Robert wasn’t sure he should be there, but it was well-worth the fury he saw on Cersei’s face. He laughed and laughed at that look, until she stormed away, leaving him alone to his drunkenness and lechery. Ned was giving him disapproving glances the whole night, but Robert never noticed.

He woke up the next morning, hangover just starting, and poured himself a cup of wine. It was important to stay drunk at all times for Robert. He hated seeing the Dornish, hated seeing Cersei and his children, hated seeing Ned’s bastard girls, especially the northern one who looked exactly like Lyanna except the purple eyes, hated knowing that Ned thought he was ruining the country. So he drank two more cups before leaving, trying to numb himself to everything. Especially since Ned’s other bastard was going to win the damn melee.

The melee was quite a sight. At the sound of the horn, seven and ninety men (and three women) charged towards each other, the sound of blunted steel on armor and shield filling the air. The Freys all grouped together, forming a defensive circle. A few of the others didn’t like that and attacked. Obara and Clarissa Sand nodded at each other and turned, Obara striking out with her spear and Clarissa slashing with her tourney greatsword. Unlike the rest, they were not armored, simply wearing leathers. Even Thoros of Myr, the fun, fire-obsessed drunk after his own heart, wore armor under his robes.

Speaking of Thoros, he was running around the field with his sword aflame, lit by wildfire. He ran at the Freys, who scattered before him. He lashed out and hit, singing three of them. Lord Randyll Tarly was someone Robert could begrudgingly respect. He’d been the only man who beat him during the rebellion. He was using his greatsword to wondrous affect, parrying quickly, fighting neatly. His style was just like him, orderly, structured, though unlike Stannis he would bend the rules with trips, kicks, and other such things. He was so different from Lyn Corbray who rushed from end to end with his sword, attacking like a madman in twirls and spins, more a tempest than a man. Smalljon Umber had his sword out and stood taller than everyone else. He used his fists and the pommel as much as he used the sword’s blade. He kicked, head-slammed, punched, tripped, and used any trick against his opponents, though they always saw it coming. He fought like an animal, like a northman: no rules, no subtlety. It was fun to watch.

The final ten emerged, and quickly were struck down. Thoros of Myr blinded Obara Sand by flashing his sword just in front of her eyes. Thoros hit her and the sellsword, Bronn, saw the Red Priest over-extended and knocking him down. Black Walder Frey, a bastard of a fighter, was out-matched by Ser Lyn Corbray. Lord Jacelyn and Ser Osmund Kettleblack managed to hit each other enough they both limped off the field, causing the crowd to laugh. The Smalljon left courtesy of Randyll Tarly, leaving four. Lord Randyll fell into a greatsword duel with Clarissa Sand as Bronn and Lyn Corbray fought. Clarissa parried Lord Randyll’s blade, forcing it to the side. She lunged and he dodged. He struck and she parried it again, dropping her right hand from the blade to punch Lord Randyll, who staggered back. She moved quickly, slicing left into a parry, feinting a headstrike, blocking his repost, and finally, slicing the sword into his side. Lord Randyll groaned as he fell, losing his grip on his sword. With Clarissa’s sword at his neck, he yielded and limped off the field.

Lyn Corbray, meanwhile, had been using the same desperate, non-stop, storm of fury style. Gods, he’d have made a good Baratheon. Bronn, however, was wearing light armor. The melee had gone on for more an hour. Lyn Corbray, sprinting in his chainmail, was understandably exhausted, and so fell to Bronn.

Bronn and Clarissa then turned to each other. Bronn tried to use the same strategy, dodging attacks, focusing purely on defense as Clarissa swung, hoping she would tire out. But she didn’t, and even his light scales were heavier than her leathers. Yet she was using a greatsword, and Bronn clearly hoped her arms would give out. His hopes (and Robert’s) were sunk when she twirled it in one hand, feinting an upwards cut, then tossing the hilt, catching it in her left, and cutting down. Bronn managed to hurry back from the blow, but even he knew he wasn’t winning now. So he went on the attack. Clarissa parried his attack, shifting the blade downwards. Her left hand punched his right elbow, forcing him to drop the blade. Her head slammed down onto his, and he staggered back. The tip of her sword was against Bronn’s neck, and the sellsword yielded.

The whole damn feast was a Dornish celebration. Everyone was coming over to congratulate Clarissa Sand, even the Tyrells, hell, even the bloody  _ Marcher Lords _ ! Robert shook his head and downed another large glass of wine, hoping to wash away the bitter taste that declaring her the victor had caused. He never stopped drinking that night.

Waking up the next morning--late morning, he could tell from the sun--Robert had no idea how he’d gotten to bed. He struggled to remember what day of the tournament it was before realizing it was the last one. First, the archery thing, then the jousting finals. Gods willing he’d get to see the Hound and the Dornish Bastard knocked off their seats. The girl was Ned’s girl, but she’d made it damn clear she thought little of her father and less of him. Who the fuck was she to think so lowly of Eddard Stark? Some little bitch who’d--

Robert’s internal monologue was cut off by the arrival of Ser Arys, who said the archery competition was starting in a few minutes. Robert thought that’s what he’d said, he saw still drunk and adding more wine on top hadn’t done anything to help--not that that would stop him, of course. So, he staggered into his clothes and out the door.

The upside to the archery contest, truly the only reason to have it in Robert’s mind, was that women were allowed to compete. There weren’t rules barring women from melees and jousts, and Obara and Clarissa Sand, as well as Brienne of Tarth had made use of that fact, but  _ ladies _ were allowed to enter an archery competition. And since you were  _ supposed _ to watch, no one could yell at him for looking at the young maids. Or so he thought.

Cersei proved him wrong on that count, and for once Ned had agreed with her. The girl he’d been staring at was Lyarra, Ned’s Winterfell bastard. He’d completely forgotten that when he was looking at her. Saying that, however, had only made things worse. Ned had glared and him and his goblet, and Cersei and groaned and muttered about who else she could have married. Some lad named Anguy had won, and cheekily refused when one of the minor lords offered to hire him saying, “my lord, you  _ do _ know I am wealthier than you?” Lyarra had come second (Robert really shouldn’t have phrased it that way in his head, now he was thinking about--he shook his head and forced his thoughts onward) and was awarded twenty-thousand gold dragons. Even drunk as he was (which was very) Robert could see why people had been more than a little upset at the sums he mentioned. He was angry at having to give a sellsword and a commoner fifty thousand gold dragons each, and even seeing the large chest of money being handed to Clarissa after the fight had enraged him. Hopefully, she’d place fourth and he wouldn’t have to pay her any more money.

The jousting semi-finals started out exactly as Robert wanted them to. After each breaking a lance, Sandor Clegane was unhorsed by the hedge knight Ser Pate on the third tilt. The Hound let out a bark of laughter, and said something like “a hedge knight! I beat the kingsguard and lose to a hedge knight, that’s a tale,” before leaving. If it had been anyone else, the crowd would likely have found it funny, but it was the Hound, and he scared damn near everyone.

The match between Clarissa Sand and Ser Barristan started well, at least by Robert’s view. They both broke lances on the first tilt, but the Sand wavered while the Bold held firm. Ser Barristan broke a lance on the second tilt, and Clarissa on the third. She wavered again on the fourth, but kept her seat. On the next three tilts, Ser Barristan broke his lance every time, yet Lady Clarissa did not fall. She was decent with a lance, but even Robert, hell, even Cersei had to admit she was a damn good rider. He called the bout for Ser Barristan, to no one’s objection, after the twelfth tilt. Ser Barristan had broken eight lances, Lady Clarissa had broken five. She smiled and shook the Lord Commander’s hand, managing to irritate Robert again.

She managed to do it twice in a row. The first tilt with the Hound, both riding for third place, neither broke a lance, nor wavered, despite a solid contact. The second was the same. On the third, the Hound broke his lance, while the Dayne bastard did not. She had aimed for his shield each time. So it was to everyone’s shock when, on the fourth tilt, the Lady Clarissa’s spear flicked from the Hound’s shield to his ribcage, sending him toppling off his horse. She managed to slide off hers and help him up, but  _ gods damn  _ Robert was angry. Not so angry that he didn’t see Ser Pate of the Blue Fork unhorse Ser Barristan on the third tilt, but angry nonetheless.


	16. Clarissa VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News from Dorne sends Prince Oberyn and his party scrambling to deal with it

**A New Dawn**

Clarissa was laughing with the rest of her party, an arm around Nymeria’s shoulders as they sat far too close for simple friends.

“A hundred seventy,” Oberyn said again. “One hundred seventy  _ thousand _ dragons you got from this thing!” Clarissa laughed again.

“The best part was how he looked,” Daemon Sand said. “Every time you hit someone, he looked like someone switched his wine with piss!”

“Doesn’t he drink Arbor Gold?” Nymeria asked. “Is there a difference?” The entire table laughed. There was nothing that could unite the dornish faster than insulting Reach wines, especially Arbor Gold. Clarissa had to admit though, the Osgrey’s birch sap wine tasted pretty good, though it was very sweet.

“My prince,” one of the guards said, gesturing. Oberyn nodded and stood, letting the guard whisper in his ear. Oberyn clenched his teeth, but nodded. He sat back down, and forced himself to talk in a low, calm voice.

“We all need to talk,” he said. “Continue your conversations. Leave one at a time, and pace yourselves. Couples, leave together. Same for mothers and sons. My rooms.” They nodded, and Oberyn stood again and walked out. The dornish turned back to the inane banter, insulting Arbor wines, mocking the prudishness of King’s Landing and Oldtown, and teasing each other relentlessly. They all left, staggered, about one cluster every five minutes. Lady Larra and her young son went first, as he could simply be going to bed. Lord Gargalen followed, his knee could be giving him trouble. Lord Dagos Manwoody and his young son (though a few years older than Perros Blackmont) left next, followed by Ser Arron Qorgyle, Obara Sand, and Ser Symon Santagar. Nymeria, Clarissa, and Lady Myria Jordayne then left, all linking arms, flirting shamelessly even as Myria blushed. Finally, Ser Deziel left. After each one left, a servant or off-duty guard took their place. The table still seemed full, unless one wanted to look or listen closely.

When they all arrived in Oberyn’s rooms, the first thing Clarissa noticed were the three open hidden doors.

“Gods, Maegor really was that crazy,” she said. Oberyn shrugged. “I cleared them all. Guards are outside the door and inside the passages. No one else will know this.”

“What is this?” Lady Larra asked. Oberyn sighed, and joined his guests, sitting on an armchair.

“As you know, my nephew Quentyn was fostered with the Yronwoods, largely as compensation for a poorly conducted duel involving myself.”

“Poorly conducted?” Ellaria asked. Oberyn nodded, a playful smile on his lips, even as it was eaten away by something else.

“He was raised with them from four to six-and-ten.” Clarissa let out a whistle. The fostering had been no secret, but she hadn’t realized it was that long. No wonder he was mostly Yronwood. “He spends most of his time there still.” Oberyn sighed, clenched his teeth, and continued.

“The Yronwoods have never liked Rhoynish law, nor our culture, nor anything about what makes Dorne so different. Of the last three and ten generations, eight of the eldest born were women, who by our laws should have been heirs. All of them were married and abdicated their inheritance, despite being married to men of lesser holdings.”

“Oh fuck,” Lady Myria said, her face paling in light of realization. “They’re trying to put Quentyn on the damn throne.” Oberyn nodded grimly.

“They called their banners as of yesterday morning.”

“What houses?” Lord Dagos asked.

“Any idea where they’ll march?” Lord Tremond Gargalen asked. Oberyn sighed again.

“Yronwood, Drinkwater, Wyl, Vaith, Allyrion, and Toland have all called their banners. The castellan of Chaston Grey and his men have declared for them as well. As for movements, the Yronwoods and Drinkwaters are likely setting defensive positions for when the Red Mountain Houses attack. I know Allyrion is besieging the Tor, despite having fewer men. Lady Myria, your father is fine, he sent the raven. Lady Toland will most likely attack Sunspear or the Water Gardens. If not she will leave to help attack the Tor. Vaith will either defend from or attack the Salt Shore. Wyl will most likely be patrolling the Dornish Sea and blocking the Bone Way.”

“When do we ride?” Clarissa asked. Oberyn looked at her, a gleam in his eye.

“I thought you might ask that. You, Nymeria, and Obara will leave tonight, as I know at least two of you would do so regardless of my instructions.” Clarissa and Obara nodded, small smirks playing on their lips. “And because you will ride the hardest, you always have. Clarissa, you will go and rally the Dayne soldiers. Nymeria, go to House Fowler, I know you are close with his daughters.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Lady Larra said, causing Nymeria and Clarissa to break into laughter despite the tense situation. Oberyn rolled his eyes, grateful for the injection of levity..

“Obara, you are sailing to Sunspear. The captain works for me. If Sunspear is burning or under Yronwood control, go to Salt Shore, they will hold out well against House Vaith.” Obara frowned, but nodded. “Ser Symon, Ser Deziel, you will board the ship with Obara. Hopefully your homes are still safe. If not, you will go to Salt Shore with her, understood?”

“Your grace,” Ser Deziel began. “I--”

“Ser Deziel, who is your heir?” Prince Oberyn asked.

“My brother, Ser Andrey.”

“And if the Yronwoods try to take your home, what will he do?”

“Fight, of course. Are you questioning my brother’s loyalty  _ your grace _ ?” Ser Deziel asked, his voice coming out in a growl.

“No. I am simply pointing out that if Lemonwood has been taken, so has your brother. So if Lemonwood, or Spottswood, have fallen, go to the Salt Shore. That is an order.”

“Yes, your grace,” Ser Deziel and Ser Symon said.

“Lady Larra, Lord Dagos. You will leave with your kin, Ser Daemon, and four guards tomorrow morning. I will explain your absence. The rest of us shall leave as soon as we may.” The group nodded, and headed back to the party, one at a time, hoping they would not look suspect. Clarissa, Nymeria, and Obara did not head back, not even when Oberyn left the room.

“Good luck,” Clarissa said, embracing Obara. Her awkward childhood crush seemed less important now that there was a civil war. “May the Seven and Mother Rhoyne go with you.”

“Do you not follow the Old Gods?” Obara asked, embracing her back.

“Aye,” Clarissa said. “But you don’t.” Obara nodded, then hugged Nymeria.

“Stay safe sister,” Obara said.

“You as well sister,” Nymeria responded. As they parted, Obara pointed at Clarissa.

“Take care of my sister. She hasn’t been in a battle before.”

“I know,” Clarissa said. “I will.” Nymeria rolled her eyes at the two of them, and suddenly Obara was off.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Clarissa and Nymeria had packed thankfully light, able to carry everything in their saddlebags. Though Clarissa did have to steal some to put all the gold into. She made sure it was from one of the Lannister horses. The-- _ her-- _ direwolf sat in front of her, resting by the pommel of her saddle.

The two rode off into the night, their horses hooves clopping along the streets of King’s Landing as they rode. They passed through the King’s Gate without questions, simply by riding faster than the guards could lower the gate. Nymeria laughed at that as they followed the Rose Road through the Kingswood. They rode hard, stopping only for a quick meal or a short rest, three, maybe four hours. They rode through Bitterbridge, the Mander fortunately not flooding this time. They crossed a tributary, then passed through Longtable, riding south through Ashford. They stopped only in lonely sections of the road, where no one could report them. They kept their cloaks tied and their hoods down and the pale direwolf hidden in a saddlebag. Word could not get out of their return, not until their armies were marching against Yronwood.

They sped over the Cockleswent River and the Red Mountain foothills. They raced towards Nightsong, then down the Prince’s Pass, flying by the Boneway, Vulture’s Roost, and the Tower of Joy. They slowed only when horsemen rode out to meet them as they were nearing Kingsgrave.

“Who are you?” the lead horseman demanded.

“Why do you care?” Clarissa asked, hoping they wouldn’t recognize Dawn. She’d put it in a sheath, but  _ damn it _ the pommel was still recognizable and she could probably kill everyone, but could she protect Nymeria while--

“Are you from House Wyl?” the man asked. Clarissa looked over at Nymeria, wide eyed. Nymeria shrugged.

“Move back,” Clarissa whispered. “Stay behind me.”

“The hell I will!” Clarissa’s direwolf bared her teeth, a low snarl building. 

“Gods damn it Nymeria, I’m the Sword of Morning, I’ve been training since I was three. But with this many, I can’t worry for you as well and if you’re there I--”

“Are you from House Wyl?” the man demanded again. “It’s a simple question, yes or no! No reason to discuss it.” Clarissa sighed and edged her horse forwards, hopefully enough to block Nymeria from charging. The man held up his hand, as if telling her to stop, when Clarissa flipped her hood back and drew Dawn.

“I am Clarissa Sand, Sword of Morning, Knight of High Hermitage, Heir of Starfall. Who are you to block my way?”

“And your companion?” the man asked. Clarissa growled, but Nymeria, having edged closer, placed a hand on her and Clarissa instinctively relaxed before getting even more anxious because Nymeria was right beside her in this situation where these men could very well be there enemies and there were five of them and that wasn’t too much for Clarissa to handle, but she couldn’t guarantee that she could protect Nymeria while she--

“Nymeria Sand, daughter of Prince Oberyn. I believe you’ve heard of him. Now answer Lady Clarissa’s question,” Nymeria said, her tone growing almost haughty as she channeled her mother’s line, the Old Blood of Volantis.

“I’m Ser Justin Greenboat, one of Lord Manwoody’s men. Come. The Princess will want to talk to you.”

“She’s here?!” Nymeria and Clarissa yelled at the same time.

“What the fuck is going on?” Clarissa demanded.

“Why wouldn’t she be in--is Sunspear okay? Is Doran alive? Where is--”

“Come with me,” Ser Greenboat said, cutting them off. “You and the Princess have much to discuss.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The mood in Kingsgrave was far more somber than when Clarissa and Nymeria were last there. The servants seemed hurried, almost frantic, the guards were jittery, and oh gods, Arianne, though she looked gorgeous as ever, her hair was starting to frizz, her eyes were wide and her feet jittering. Nymeria almost leapt off her horse to rush to her side.

“Ari, Ari, are you okay?” Nymeria asked, quickly sweeping Arianne into a tight embrace. Clarissa, not so close to the Princess, stood back a bit, deeply concerned.

“I--oh gods Nym,” Arianne said as tears started to well in her eyes. “Follow me, you too Clarissa, we need to talk.” Clarissa nodded and followed the two scions of House Martell. They walked through the courtyard where she’d dueled the Darkstar, then down a different corridor, and into a large solar. Mors Manwoody, acting lord while his father and younger brother were away, was already seated on a sofa. Arianne sat next to him, while Nymeria and Clarissa sat on the loveseat across from them.

“Are you okay, Ari?” Nymeria asked. “Are you safe? What happened, how can we help?” Arianne closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then looked back up. When she opened her eyes, the fun, playful seductress they had known for years was gone. Instead there was the cold, piercing stare they had seen only rarely, her jaw set in stone.

“I will be fine,” Arianne said. “Once we avenge my father.”


	17. Lyarra IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra attends tea with the Dornish and has many questions it would be impolite to ask

**Confused Wolf**

Life in the capitol was weird. That’s truly the best way Lyarra could describe it. Weird. If the king was sober for ten minutes each day, it was a miracle. Her father was always in meetings, Sansa refused to talk to her since she claimed it would make Joffrey hate her (really though, fuck Joffrey, he’s an asshole--at least that’s what Clarissa had said) and Arya was always fighting with everyone. Arya was even fighting with her, and that had never happened before. She’d been increasingly angry ever since Syrio Forel had left. It had been nice that Clarissa had asked him to teach them, since they were only half-sisters and had never met. But Arya had been increasingly wild since her hero (Clarissa) and her teacher (Syrio) left. She spent every day from dawn to past dusk chasing cats and balancing on the tops of walls. She broke her fast early, before father had left. After a few days, Lyarra started waking up when she did, so that they could break their fast together. She’d usually go and practice archery for a while afterwards.

“You truly are a fantastic shot, my lady,” Lyarra heard a soft voice say one morning. It was early, and the sun was just beginning to rise over the Blackwater. If they were on open ground, or on the fields just outside the city, the mist would be clearing up. Instead they were in the stone courtyard of the Red Keep, where the targets were kept. The stone here was different from in Winterfell. It felt separate and unliving.

“Thank you, my lady,” Lyarra said with a curtsey. It was one of the Dornish noblewomen, one of the younger ones. There weren’t many left, most had fled either the night of the feast or soon thereafter. The King had been furious, but Prince Oberyn simply said that there were family emergencies. It wouldn’t surprise Lyarra if the Prince meant to leave as well.

“Myria,” the noblewoman said. “Call me Myria.”

“If you call me Lyarra,” Lyarra responded. She wasn’t sure how to feel about this. Other than her family, she only called Jon by his name. She also called him Smalljon, when she felt like teasing him. They’d talked and flirted more since the tournament. He’d done well in the melee, but her sister had won. She hadn’t even been hit, and Jon had been impressed by her, which said a lot. All the Umbers were large, strong, and good fighters. He’d also been proud when she won. He’d lifted her up and they’d danced four times, even though she knew he hated the intricate dances of the South. She thought they were fine, it was better than not dancing, but she preferred the Northern jigs, even if her chosen instrument was ill-suited to them.

“It was nice of you to give Clarissa the wolf.”

“Hmm?” Lyarra asked, lost in thought. She hadn’t been paying much attention to anything, but was relieved when she saw the target. Eight more arrows had made their way there, all in the bullseye. Lady Myria smiled at her.

“It was nice of you to give Clarissa that wolf,” she said again. Lyarra shrugged, knocking another arrow.

“There were seven,” Lyarra said as she drew the bow. “One for each--” she paused to smile as she let the arrow go and it flew into the target, “child of House Stark.”

“So you’ve said,” Lady Myria said. “Still, it was nice of you. To care for the pup all your way down. It’s quite rambunctious, that could not have been the easiest task.” Lyarra laughed as she unstrung her borrowed bow, and Lady Myria followed her as she went to put it away.

“The pup is a handful,” she said.

“Yes, Clarissa and she are well-suited for each other.” Lyarra chuckled at that. “Do you play an instrument, Lyarra?”

“What?” Lyarra asked, turning towards her, brow furrowed. Lady Myria smiled.

“Your fingers,” she said, pointing towards them. “They are all callused, as are the ones on your left hand. As happens if you play a string instrument. Archery will give calluses on some of your right fingers, and upon your left palm, but never all your fingers.” Lyarra raised an eyebrow and placed the bow in the armory, then turned to grab the arrows. Lady Myria helped her take them from the target.

“I do,” Lyarra conceded. “I play the harp.”

“Truly?” Lady Myria asked. “It is a beautiful instrument. The water songs we play in Dorne are best played on a harp, though I had not thought Northern music was played on it.” Lyarra laughed again and Lady Myria smiled. Lyarra wondered if she found her laugh as beautiful as other people claimed. They said it was wild as the northern winds, yet light as a falling feather.

“You are right, my lady--”

“Myria, please.” Lyarra inclined her head.

“Very well. You are right, Myria, our northern songs do not play well on a harp. They are meant for fiddle and fife, or drums. But that does not mean we cannot play the harp, nor that we do not appreciate a more elegant tune.”

“Of course not,” Lady Myria said, seeming vaguely offended. “Just as we dornish do not have sex in a sept or eat sand, the North is not a land of savages.” Lyarra smiled and nodded. There was a pause as they put the arrows away, then closed the closet within the armory.

“Would you care to join me for tea?” Myria asked as they headed back into the Red Keep. “It would be with the other dornishmen currently here.” Lyarra arched her eyebrow.

“Would they not be insulted by my presence?”

“Dear gods no. At least, not for the reason you think of. In Dorne, a bastard is not that much different from a trueborn child. Prince Oberyn has eight daughters, all Sands, and your sister Clarissa is a bastard as well as the Sword of Morning and heir of Starfall.”

“Would they not hate the presence of a Stark?” Myria sighed.

“If it was your father, maybe. Oberyn does not like him, and Clarissa--” Lady Myria paused, grimacing as they continued to walk. “Clarissa hates him more than anyone else in Dorne, and she saw you as a sister. They will view you as Clarissa’s sister more than Eddard Stark’s daughter.” Lyarra nodded slightly. She still loved her father, but after everything she’d learned and heard (really, managing to cheat on two women within one year) her previously steadfast respect for the man was fading.

“I will join you then.”

“You know where to go?” Lyarra nodded and Myria smiled. “I look forward to seeing you at tea, Lady Lyarra.” And in a glance, Lady Myria was gone. Lyarra sighed and walked back to the Hand’s Tower. It would be a good while until tea.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Lyarra had not told her father she was going to the have tea with the Dornish party. He had been utterly confused by her sister Clarissa, and left holding an empty bag when the many had suddenly left. He would likely not approve, or demand that guards go with her. Lyarra was not dumb enough to think that would endear her, or save her. If the dornish wanted her dead, they would not kill her while sharing tea.

So she told herself outside Prince Oberyn’s rooms, when she knocked on the heavy door. Within seconds it was open, revealing a table with fruits, cheese, and wine, and four people seated around it.

“Ah,” Prince Oberyn said as she entered. Lady Myria smiled from where she sat, as did the Prince’s paramour. “Lady Lyarra. Thank you for joining us.” Lyarra curtseyed deeply and stood.

“Thank you for having me, your grace,” she responded. The prince gestured for her to take a seat.

“I am surprised your father let you come,” Prince Oberyn said. Lyarra froze, a grape dangling just out of your hands. She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat, when the Prince started laughing.

“Oberyn!” his paramour scolded lightheartedly as Lyarra flushed a deep red. “Do not tease the child so!” The older, possibly old man, smiled at her across the table.

“Do excuse my nephew,” the man said. “He has the manners of a wasp.” Lyarra smiled at him. “We are glad you are here, our teas have become dull ever since our more reasonable and fun members left.”

“Who is more fun than me, uncle?” the Prince asked.

“Clarissa, easily,” his paramour said. Prince Oberyn glared at her, and she smiled back. She then turned towards Lyarra. “Ellaria Sand, it is good to meet you,” she said.

“Oh yes, where are my manners,” the old man said. “Lord Tremond Gargalen of the Salt Shore, pleased to meet you. The uncouth man in orange is my nephew, Prince Oberyn, and the fine young woman who invited you is Lady Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor.” Lyarra nodded and smiled, the colors and words of each house running through her head.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The conversation was pleasant, the fruit and cheese was good, and the wine was truly fantastic. It was smoother than anything she’d had before, even if she did not like the bitter aftertaste. It helped her ease into the conversation, as they talked about her siblings, what she thought of King’s Landing (none of them liked it) and she pet Ghost absentmindedly.

“Lady Lyarra,” Lady Myria said during a lull in the conversation. “You said you play the harp, correct?” Lyarra smiled and nodded.

“I play occasionally, though I am sure not as well as many others.” Prince Oberyn raised his brown.

“Would you play for us?” he asked. “It would hardly be fair to put others above you without hearing first.”

“I am afraid I do not have my harp with me,” Lyarra responded.

“I should hope not!” Prince Oberyn exclaimed. “It is quite a heavy thing to lug around the Red Keep, up and down the stairs. There is one in the other room. Daelor, Marrin, could you get it?” The two guards Prince Oberyn had apparently called for nodded, and proceeded to bring an ornate, beautifully carved harp out, placing it in front of a nearby chair. It was beautiful, with a frame and soundbox of a light purple wood and a soundboard of spruce. The top was covered in a thing layer of gold that extended up to form a curl above the front brace.

“What kind of wood is that?” Lyarra asked, her breath more than a little taken away. Ellaria smiled at her.

“It is purple heart,” she said. “It comes from the valleys in Essos where the Rhoynar once lived.” Lyarra nodded, her eyes still wide. “Would you do us the honor of playing it?” Lyarra nodded again and moved, pulled as if entranced by this harp. It pulled at her, seeming to call to her with its slender strings and gorgeous wood, though the gold was a tad extravagant to her. She sat, and leaned the harp against her. It fit perfectly, and she rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. She began playing without a thought as to what it would be, and sung along. It formed a haunting beauty, this wordless song, as it climbed up mountain peaks and ran through troughs. Lyarra was so enchanted by the harp that she did not notice the shocked expressions of Prince Oberyn and Lord Gargalen, nor the tears in everyone’s eyes. When she finished, the Prince and his uncle had recovered from their shock, and applauded with the rest of the group and their guards.

“My gods,” Ellaria said, wiping away a tear. “You have an amazing voice, and your playing was simply gorgeous.” Lyarra smiled faintly as she blushed and curtseyed to Ellaria.

“Thank you,” she said shyly.

“How have we not heard of you?” Myria asked. “You are the best harpist I have heard!” Lyarra blushed deeper and sat back at the table.

“That is a kind thing to say, my lady,” Lyarra said.

“It is a true thing to say,” Lord Gargalen replied, and Lyarra’s blush deepened. “Though I also have the same question. How have we not heard word of your talent?” Lyarra shrugged.

“I am but a northern bastard,” she replied. “And father does not let me play for company.”

“Why not?” Prince Oberyn asked, his face blank. That was odd. His face had never been blank before, always showing one emotion or another.  _ What was happening _ ?

“I do not know, your grace.”


	18. Interlude/Oberyn I and Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn's reaction to his realizations and a quick peek at how Jaime Lannister is doing over in Essos  
> Short chapter, sorry about that!

**The Prince of Passion**

Lady Lyarra had barely left the room when Oberyn turned to his uncle and grabbed his shoulder.

“We need to talk,” Oberyn whispered. His uncle said nothing, merely giving him a slight nod before returning to his conversation with Lady Myria.

After they saw their guests out, Ellaria, sensing the mood, decided to scout out the Street of Silk. Silence reigned as the servants scurried around, picking up the plates and carrying the harp back to its resting place.

Once everyone had left, Oberyn opened one of the hidden passageways. He walked through it with his uncle trailing behind, until they reached a spot where it passed through two thick walls, no rooms nearby. Oberyn looked up the path to check no one was there.

“Fucking Eddard Stark,” Oberyn said by way of starting the conversation. “Should’ve known he’d only have one bastard.”

“Truly,” Tremond said, “We should have thought of it when we saw her violet eyes. Where else would she have gotten those?” Oberyn nodded, the laughed, a bit bitterly.

“We should have realized this sooner, far sooner,” he said. “Three Kingsguard outside the Tower of Joy?”

“The three  _ best _ Kingsguard,” his uncle added. Oberyn ran his hand through his hair, then stopped.

“Wait, that means--”

“I know.” Oberyn’s eyes flared, but he bit down his anger. The man he wanted to kill was already dead. Two of them, at least. Rage would do him no good, not now.

“The question is, what now?”

“I don’t know. It’s not one we need to answer, not now at least.”

“It’s not one we  _ can  _ answer now, with Dorne in the shape it’s in.” Uncle Tremond sighed. “However, Ned Stark will not last long in King’s Landing.”

“No,” Uncle Tremond agreed. “The Queen is plotting against her husband, although who could blame her for that I do not know.”

“Baelish is plotting as well,” Oberyn said. “He had Arryn killed.”

“Why?”

“Old man found out he’d stolen two million dragons from the Crown.”

“Two million?!” his uncle exclaimed. “How?” Oberyn shrugged.

“Underreporting taxes, I think. Or adding to the king’s wine tabs and brothel expenditures, I’m not exactly sure.” They both paused, looking at the ground for a moment.

“No matter what we decide,” Oberyn said. “We need him to tell her.”

“I know. She won’t believe it from us.”

“Would you?”

“If I were her? Not from us.” Oberyn sighed, then nodded. The two men walked back into Oberyn’s rooms.

 

**A Lion, Bought and Paid for**

“Ser Jaime!” a voice called out. Jaime turned and quirked an eyebrow at the sight. The former Lord Peake was approaching him, flanked by his brothers. “Have you heard the news?” the man asked.

“Which news?” Jaime asked.

“Any of it,” Pykewood Peake retorted. The former Lord Laswell rolled his eyes, but talked anyways.

“There’s a civil war in Dorne,” he said. “Tyrosh is trying to take the Stepstones while they’re distracted. They hired us, we leave tomorrow.”

“Weren’t we supposed to do that before?” Jaime asked.

“No, they wanted us to sack Lys. Called it off at the last moment. They’re promising to go through with it this time.”

“Thank the gods,” Jaime said. “I’m sick of cutting grass and vanishing armies.”

“Truth be told, I’m glad the Volantines didn’t show up,” Pykewood said. “I don’t fancy being outnumbered six to one.”

“I once knew a man who trained like that,” Jaime said, his voice shifting melancholic.

“Really?” Torman Peake, the youngest brother, asked. “Who was he?”

“Best man I even knew,” Jaime said. “Best swordsman too. He managed to break an enemy’s weapon, then let him grab another. Knew when to follow a vow, knew when it was broken. He was worth ten men on a battlefield, worth more than twenty in the rest of life.” Jaime shook his head and walked off with a sigh, eyes misting as he recalled his hero.


	19. Arianne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Princess of Dorne gains her footing

**Princess of Dorne**

Nymeria and Clarissa stared at her in shock.

“Avenge?” Clarissa asked, her eyes wide.

“Avenge,” Arianne said, her voice taking the tone of a true Princess of Dorne. “Quentyn led the Toland forces into the Water Gardens. My-my father,” she says, voice breaking a little. “Valena Toland killed him. He was in his wheelchair.”

“Oh gods Ari,” Nymeria said, rushing to her side. Her arms wrapped around Arianne, pulling her close. She didn’t say anything, just held her close. Which, if Arianne was being honest, was exactly what she needed. What Clarissa was doing, eyes burning and jaw clenched, was what the country needed right then. Clarissa stood.

“I’m going to Starfall,” she said, voice low. It was clear she was suppressing her rage, saving it for later. “I’ll call the banners. Meet us at Hellholt in a sennight.” Arianne and Nymeria nodded. Clarissa kissed Nymeria briefly, and left.

“Mors,” Arianne said softly. “Have you called the banners yet?”

“Some, but I-um, wanted to wait for my father--”

“Call all of them,” Arianne said in her commanding voice. “We march tomorrow. Mors Manwoody nodded, and quickly left. Arianne sank into Nymeria’s arms.

“I should go to the Fowlers,” Nymeria said. “I’ll get them to join us.” Arianne nodded, but didn’t move. She sighed.

“I know,” she said. “Just hold me a little longer.”

 

Nymeria left the next morning, heading to Skyreach. As the Manwoody troops fully mobilized, Arianne felt stuck. She’d paid more attention to back-room deals and court politics than warfare. She could defend herself in a pinch, but she was no warrior. Certainly not good enough to go on the battlefield, where the fate of her people would be decided.

Although she was not skilled in combat, Arianne knew strategy, and how to plan a war. He uncle and father had seen to that much at least. Gods, she hoped Oberyn was doing okay in the capital. He hated that place. He always had, but his hatred became much more focused and intense after Aunt Elia. The place also brought back his memories, and his flashbacks. Thank the gods Ellaria was with him.

Shaking her head, Arianne focused and turned to the map of Dorne. Thanks to the Darkstar’s death, they no longer had to worry about betrayal from High Hermitage, so all the Red Mountain troops could be used against their enemies to the east. Had Clarissa not killed him, this war could be very different. Starfall would have been besiege by now. She took out the recent letters and reports, reading them one-by-one and moving figures around on the map. House Wyl’s troops had advanced up the Boneway and were now based in the Vulture’s Roost. They were repairing the decrepit fort, and apparently making headway. Some Yronwood troops, confident in their siege of the Tor, had come back west, and now stood in the Valley of Ferris, which lay between Skyreach, Yronwood, and Kingsgrave. They had added fortifications on both banks of the river, with House Wyl manning the north bank and House Yronwood the south.

The Toland troops had ignored the protests of the Orphans of the Greenblood and crossed the river to lay siege to Lemonwood. They might take it, as they had Spottswood, but they had made a powerful enemy. Everyone underestimated the Orphans, even her father. They forgot the thousands of Reach soldiers drowned in the Greenblood and the failed attempts of the Red Princes to bring the Orphans under their control. Planky Town would not remain in rebel hands for long.

One of her cousin’s ravens had managed to survive and arrived from the Salt Shore the day before. The Vaith forces were still besieging them, but had made no progress, and they had more than enough supplies. They would need help to break the siege and raise their banners, however.

The Yronwoods had also advanced on Hellholt, pushing back the Uller bannermen before they could fully gather. They were coming close to the banks of the Brimstone. If they came that close, they would likely burn the bridge so the Red Mountain troops would be forced into the Boneway or the Valley of Ferris.

Arianne sighed, feeling near tears, though she forced them back. She’d always known her brother wanted to rule Dorne, that the Yronwoods had raised him to believe it was his birthright. Still, she couldn’t believe he’d had their father killed. And Trystane, poor Trystane. Gods she hoped he was okay.

The Yronwood’s unexpected preparedness had caught everyone else unawares, and they had quickly taken most of the ‘foot’ of Dorne. Arianne still held the ankle and the heel, but those would be gone soon if the banners were not raised in time.

In truth, Arianne was worried about Clarissa. She was worried about Nymeria as well, but she knew Nym would be careful and wait until a sizeable force had been gathered before leading them south. Clarissa might gatherer whatever mounted soldiers she could and race for Hellholt. She’d better not. Not only would it be a waste of soldiers, but the death of the Sword of Morning would bode quite ill for her cause, and Clarissa’s death would break Nym’s heart. Much as she might refuse to admit it, Nym loved Clarissa. It was odd to Arianne, that they called each other ‘love’ and ‘dear’ and called each other lovers, but refused to say, “I love you.” But it was their relationship, not hers. And she didn’t want Nym to get hurt because Clarissa was angry and impatient.

Arianne sighed and sat down. Taking out her notebooks, she looked over the estimated war damages. With another sigh, she began recalculating them. The Yronwoods were establishing and fortifying themselves far faster than she’d thought. It would be far costlier than expected to out them, both in terms of money and, more importantly, life. She then turned to her ideas for what to do after the war.

House Yronwood had always been a problem for the Martells, ever since Nymeria’s Conquest. Before, the Yronwoods had ruled much of Dorne, and claimed to be its High Kings. They had sided against the Martells in three wars in the 111 years since Dorne had joined the Seven Kingdoms, each time with the promise that they would be named the Princes or Lords Paramount of Dorne. But they were too important, too old, and too respected a house to simply end the main line.

Lord Anders would have to die, he led this rebellion alongside his goodson and foster son. Ser Cletus and Ser Archibald would hopefully be killed in battle. Arianne didn’t want to start her reign with a series of executions, but would have little choice if those two survived. As the wife of Ryon Allyrion, Ynys Yronwood had no claim, having abandoned it. Yronwood would go to the young Gwyneth Yronwood, who was one and ten. She would be fostered at the Water Gardens and in Sunspear until she reached majority. The Yronwood lands would also be cut, though not too extensively. Perhaps enough to make the Jordaynes into a Major House.

The Tolands were easy to deal with. Lady Nymella would no longer be the ruling lady of Ghost Hill, and their lands would be diminished. Her daughters would be fostered at Sunspear and the Water Gardens until they reached eight and ten. Arianne would ensure they married loyal houses. Vaith was also easy, but very different. Lord Daeron had committed treason, but his son and heir had been the one who led the attack on Spottswood (Nymella Toland refusing to leave Sunspear), which had turned into a massive pillaging and rape. Ser Aeron himself had been accused of sixteen counts of rape following the attack. They would both be executed, ending the main line. Vaith would be taken over by Lady Jynnesssa Ladybright, Lady Alyse Ladybright’s daughter, who was tied to the Vaiths by her paternal grandmother. She could take the Vaith name if she wished. If she did not, her children would be free to take it as well. Lady Alyse’s second-born child, Ser Aramath, who was currently fighting alongside House Jordayne at the Tor, would inherit the current family holdings.

House Wyl and House Allyrion were tricky. Theoretically, Allyrion should be easy. Lady Delonne, Ser Ryon, Lady Ynys, and Ser Ryon’s two children could all be disinherited at the least for their treason. Then, Ser Ryon’s bastard, Ser Daemon Sand, who had remained loyal to the Martells, could be legitimized and take over. That part was simple, and would be done. The problem was over whether Lady Delonne and Lady Ynys should be executed. Ser Ryon would have to be. Both those ladies had helped organize the rebelling coalition, but executing women was always tricky, and the fact that Lady Ynys had two young children would make it worse. No, Ynys would have to live, though both her children would be raised in Sunspear, and Lady Ynys would have to live there as well, as she could not be trusted to hold Yronwood in her younger sister’s place. Or she could exile them. But what purpose would that serve, save to anger everyone at her, and create the seeds of a second rebellion? No, that would not work, at least not for them. Lady Delonne, on the other hand, had family in Myr. She could be exiled, and it would seem a mercy to many. Yes, that would work.

House Wyl was a mess. They had a very small main line, with only Lord Dagon, his brother, Ser Arron Wyl, and Lord Dagon’s daughter, Lady Elys. Neither Lord Dagon nor Ser Arron were interested in women. In fact, Lord Dagon had never married, but instead adopted Lady Elys and raised her as his own. She had once been close to Arianne, but it was unclear what role she was playing. If she wasn’t active, she could become the Lady of the Boneway, and it would be over and done with. If she was actively supporting the rebellion, that was different, and would cause chaos. While Lord Dagon had only one child, and his father had just two, Lord Dagon’s grandfather had seventeen acknowledged children, eleven of which were trueborn. With their children and grandchildren, there were thirty-four adults who could possibly take over House Wyl.

Arianne put away her notebook and massaged her forehead. She’d made some progress, that would be enough for today. She could deal with the Wyl migraine later.


	20. Clarissa VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarissa gathers the armies while making her way south

**The Flaming Dawn**

Clarissa rode hard and fast. Her horse was good and she was a natural rider, although not like her bastard half-sister. She’d only see Lyarra ride once while in King’s Landing, but she’d looked like she belonged on the back of a horse the way a fish belongs in the sea.

Feeling her direwolf pup nuzzle into her, Clarissa thought of her siblings again. She wished she’d spent more time with them instead of purposefully avoiding them, and avoiding thinking of them. It wasn’t their fault, she knew that. But when she thought of Lord Stark, it filled her with anger and rage, as much as he seemed to be a decent father to them. She could never forgive him, not for betraying her mother (though knowing he had been willing to made her glad they weren’t married, her mother deserved better). She couldn’t forgive him for killing her uncle instead of just asking to enter the tower and see his sister. She couldn’t forgive him for being the Usurper’s friend, even after he drowned the kingdom in debt and allowed the slaughter of Aegon and Rhaenys, and the rape and murder of Elia. The fact that he was willing to be that monster’s Hand made him a monster too. One who murders children, abides by the murder of children, or remains friends with those who do, had forfeited their humanity in her mind.

Her direwolf nuzzled into her again, and Clarissa smiled, despite the situation and her muddled thoughts. She still needed to give her a name, but nothing was coming to mind. She was an albino, a beautiful white coat with shining red. As much as Clarissa tried to separate herself from anything Stark, she loved this little wolf. Still, she refused to give her direwolf a Stark name. No, she wouldn’t condemn her to that house. She would have a Dayne name.

In King’s Landing, she and Nymeria had gone through a list. Neither of them had liked any of the names. Dawn was too derivative, Dusk didn’t make any sense, Whitelight was just bad, and neither of them had liked Oberyn’s mocking suggestion that did not bear repeating. Moonlight, which Ser Deziel had come up with, was a good name, but had nothing to do with Clarissa or her wolf, beyond their shared paleness.

Star. The name came to her as a thought in a moment. Star. It fit perfectly. Her coat matched the pale milkiness of Dawn’s blade, forged from a fallen star. Starfall was the Dayne homeland, their banner held a white Star, and like stars in the night sky, Star, her siblings, and Lyarra had stood out as good things amongst all the bad of House Stark.

Star. Clarissa smiled and pressed her thighs in. That was another place she agreed with Lyarra and Arya. They had talked briefly after they had run into each other while riding. They hated spurs, as did Clarissa. If you had to make your horse bleed to get it to run, you had no business riding.

Speeding through the Red Mountains on her cantering horse, Clarissa smiled while the wind ran through her hair. She slowed to a trot only when she approached Blackmont. She’d been riding for four days with minimal rest, no more than she had on the way down. Having refused to stay the night at Kingsgrave, that meant she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for eighteen days, since she left King’s Landing.

“Who approaches at this time of night?” the guard demanded as Clarissa approached. Holding back a yawn, Clarissa waited a beat before responding.

“Clarissa Dayne, Sword of Morning and Knight of High Hermitage, with urgent news.” The guard raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

“Very well, you may enter. Durran’ll take you to the Lady Jynessa.” Clarissa nodded, and rode her horse through the gates. She dismounted at the stables, taking Star off her along with the saddle, bit, tack, and reins. She brushed her down, fed and watered her, and set out in search of the Durran.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to go far, as Durran was right behind her.

“Not many nobles that groom their own horses,” he said.

“Not many nobles that care about their horses,” she responded.

“True ‘nough,” the man said with a shrug. “Right then, this way.” Following the man, Clarissa walked through the Blackmont courtyard, their training grounds, and finally into their keep. They went through the main hall, past the solar (which led Clarissa to furrow her brows) and finally, into the library.

“Lady Clarissa Dayne to see you, my lady,” Durran said.

“Clarissa!” Jynessa said, closing her book and leaping up to give her a hug that Clarissa returned, albeit tiredly. Jynessa stepped back. “Come with me,” she said, and led Clarissa back to the solar. Jynessa closed the door as Clarissa sank into a soft chair and closed her eyes.

“Dear gods,” Jynessa said as she walked over and sat down. “How long has it been since you slept?”

“Hey!” Clarissa said, sitting up. “I slept last night.” Jynessa raised an eyebrow.

“For how long?” she asked.

“Three hours,” Clarissa mumbled.

“Clarissa! You are staying the night here. No,” she said as Clarissa started to speak. “You will have a bath, dinner, and then sleep. You will wake up, break your fast, and then you can continue on. You’ll be of no use if you’re tired.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Clarissa said before yawning. “I could beat the Kingsguard again right now.”

“All five of them?”

“Probably. Maybe only four.” Jynessa rolled her eyes.

“You’re sleeping, or I won’t send the Blackmont soldiers with you.”

“Fine,” Clarissa replied, though she doubted Jynessa would follow through on her threat. She stood up. “Where will I be sleeping?”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Clarissa’s bath had been quite relaxing as she soaked in the hot water and washed the road dust from her. As soon as she had hit the bed, however, she fell into a deep sleep, not waking up until it was light out.

“Jynessa!” she yelled when, after getting dressed, she stormed into the solar. “The hell didn’t you wake me up? It’s almost midday!” Jynessa closed her book and looked up.

“You needed the rest and the troops weren’t here,” she replied. Clarissa sighed.

“Thank you for having me stay the night,” she said after a long pause, anger sorted and courtesies returned. “Are your banners present and accounted for?”

“Some,” Jynessa replied, biting her lip. “They’ve sent most of their horse in first, as per my request. There’s a few foot soldiers here, but not many.”

“How many horse?”

“Two-fifty. The rest are riding across our lands to gather the foot.” Clarissa nodded.

“Thanks,” she said. “May I take them with me?”

“That’s why I asked them to gather first.” Clarissa smiled, and thanked her again. She broke her fast while the soldiers and Jynessa ate lunch. After the meal, she thanked Jynessa again and met the horsemen she’d be leading. Many were knights, though most weren’t. There were seven captains, but Clarissa re-arranged the groups somewhat to have ten squads of twenty-four, plus a captain. Plus her.

They made it to High Hermitage by nightfall, even though they weren’t riding as fast as Clarissa would like. The castellan, Rhaenys, had gathered the warriors. Rhaenys was young for a castellion, and was of “low birth.” Clarissa had chosen her because Rhaenys was loyal to her, having trained alongside her, a good warrior, and smart. She had also never liked the Darkstar.

“You’ll have to stay here,” Clarissa said.

“Wait now,” Rhaenys had begun.

“No. I need you here in case we fail. If we lose the battle along the Brimstone, my family should sail from Starfall, unless the Wyls have blockaded it. If they have, I need you to take them in. High Hermitage is easier to defend, and in a much better position.” Rhaenys sighed, but agreed. “Thank you, Rhaenys. I am in your debt.” Rhaenys rolled her eyes, but accepted a hug from Clarissa.

Clarissa left with the mounted warriors from High Hermitage, though she left the leaders behind to take the foot soldiers down to Starfall. With 350 horse, she rode south. The path down this stretch of the Torrentine was far easier to navigate and not nearly as steep. The party made good time, and could see Starfall by the time dusk fell.

Clarissa sighed and smiled when she stepped back into Starfall. Ashara was nearby, she’d been waiting for them.

“Mom!” Clarissa said, rushing across the room to embrace her mother, who quickly hugged her back.

“It’s good to have you back,” her mother said, smiling. “Even if it’s only for a night.”

“It’s nice to come back home,” she said with a sigh. “I can see why you and Oberyn hate King’s Landing.” Ashara nodded, but her smiled faded. A moment later, she shoved Clarissa.

“Hey, what was that for?” Clarissa asked. “I’m sure I deserve it, but which thing?”

“For challenging the whole damn Kingsguard to a duel to the death!” Ashara yelled. “And all at once? What the hell were you thinking?” Ashara cried out, shoving Clarissa again before hugging her tight. “I’m glad you’re okay.” Clarissa sighed and hugged her mother as tears stained her shirt. She pressed a kiss to her mother’s head before starting to explain.

“I didn’t challenge them,” she began. “Not for the insult, at least. That just gave me an excuse.”

“Then why?” Clarissa shrugged.

“Meryn Trant got off on beating up little girls. He’d buy out the twelve year olds of brothels in King’s Landing. Preston Greenfield blackmailed a draper’s wife into sleeping with him. Boros Blount has a nasty temper, and Balon Swann and Mandon Moore are pricks. Plus, I got to embarrass the Usurper.” Ashara sighed, holding her daughter close.

“Why did I let you squire with Oberyn?” she asked. “This exactly the kind of thing he’d have done ten years ago.”

“Not just a decade ago,” Clarissa said with a grin. “He wanted to help me, or take my place.” Ashara groaned and massaged her temple.

“On a different note, good job with the Mountain.”

“He finally died?”

“Three days ago.” Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank the gods.” Ashara wrapped her daughter in another tight hug.

“You’ve done well,” she said. “I’m proud to call you daughter.”


	21. Eddard Stark I/Lyarra V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddard Stark and Lyarra Snow face a rough encounter with the truth

**The Quiet Wolf**

This was hardly the meeting he wanted to have. Especially now. With these people. This was not at all how Ned Stark had seen his day playing out. But here he sat, two servants corridor doors open along with a secret passageway--all of them guarded further down so no one can hear them--across a desk from Prince Oberyn Martell and Lord Tremond Gargalen. With Lyarra sitting outside. _Fuck_ , Ned thought. He had assumed getting stabbed by Tywin Lannister's new strongman would be the worst part of his week. How wrong he was.

“How well do you remember Ser Arthur, uncle?” the prince asked.

“Oh, very well,” Lord Gargalen said. “You two were always together at the Water Gardens. I’d say you were thick as thieves, dear nephew, but he was always a guard and you the thief.”

“Fucking strong guard,” Prince Oberyn added. “Knocked me out when we were six with a single punch.”

“Your head was soft,” Lord Gargalen responded with a scoff. “It still is.”

“Not so soft as to think Arthur would prevent a man from seeing his sister,” Oberyn replied blithely. Ned’s heart pounded, his throat tightened. “Always was the height of honor, even if that meant breaking a vow.”

“That he was, though Ser Gerold took a stricter view of it.”

“And Ser Oswell somewhere in between.”

“All were good men.”

“That they were.” Prince Oberyn paused before continuing in a musing tone. “Say, uncle, come to think of it, I can think of a reason Ser Arthur would stop siblings from meeting.”

“Pray tell,” Lord Gargalen said in false earnestness. “What might that be?”

“If he thought one might kill the other and her child.”

“But why would he think that?”

“I know not,” Prince Oberyn said, his eyes turning, meeting Ned’s as he leaned in. They flared. His voice grew cold and clipped. “Perhaps,” he said bitingly. “If the man stood idly by while young babes were slaughtered. Perhaps if he let them be killed simply for sharing one man’s blood.” The prince leaned back into his chair, his gaze burning into Ned’s skull. “But then again, this is mere speculation.” The two Dornishmen stared at Ned, their gaze unwavering in its intensity. Whether he avoided it or look into it, he could not escape.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly, slumping down onto his desk.

“Justice,” Prince Oberyn said. “Simple. As. That.”

“Justice from who? My sister?”

“We do not blame children for their parent’s mistakes,” Oberyn said. “That is not the Dornish way.”

“Then again, I ask, what do you want?”

“And again, I say, justice,” Oberyn responded. “The throne is her right, regardless of the drunken lout you sat upon it.”

“Are you planning rebellion?” Ned asked in a growl.

“No,” Oberyn replied. “Simply ending yours.” Ned growled, and Lord Gargalen immediately stepped in before they killed each other.

“We won’t force her to take the throne,” he said. “But at the very least she deserves to know. And she deserves to know _now_.” Before Ned could say a word the prince had nodded towards his guard at the door. With his head still spinning, Ned saw Lyarra enter the room, a stormy expression writ large across her face.

“H-how much do you know?” Ned asked as the door was closed again. The dornishman stood silent. 

“More than you wish I did,” Lyarra said bitterly. “Were you ever going to tell me? To let me think I was something more than a blemish on your record, an annoyance in your wife’s house?”

“I--”

“Is this why you let your friend stare at me? The Demon of the Trident, turned into a rambling, cheating, drunken mess who looks at me like his so-called ‘lady love,’ the woman who ran off with a prince to get away from him?”

“Wh-who told you this?”

“I did, my lord,” a voice said as a balding man with a trimmed white beard stepped into the room. “ _He_ sent me to get you, and when I saw the princess sitting outside and heard the topic, I thought it best to fill in a few gaps.”

“Did you now?” Ned asked, eyes full of fury. “Is this really really the best time? When the kingdom is at risk of collapsing? When Dorne is in a civil war, the Lannisters are marauding through the Riverlands, and we have a King on the throne?

“We have a man some call king,” Ser Barristan responded. “Though he is a poor ruler. As for whether he is on the throne, the answer is not often, as you well know.”

“You know,” Lyarra spat, her eyes burning with a passion Ned hadn’t seen since his sister. “You’re _damn_ lucky Clarissa isn’t here. At this point, I’d help her kill you.” She turned, the skirt of her dress whirling as she sped down the stairs.

 

**A Raging Dragon**

Lyarra stormed from the Tower of the Hand, leaving confused sisters and servants in her wake. She’d never let her emotions show like this. Not when Sansa called her a half-sister, not when Catelyn was determined to undermine everything she did, not when Arya splashed in the mud carelessly, ruining a dress that had taken two days to make.

“Lya!” a voice called from behind her. Lyarra ignored it, pushing through the Red Keep, out the door, towards the stable.

“Lyarra!” another voice, worried, called. “Wait!” Lyarra, if that even was her name--Gods, how much had he taken from her?--saddled her horse.

“Lya! Please, what’s going on?” Lyarra sighed and turned, facing Arya and Sansa. Tears had run down Lyarra’s face. The sisters’ faces were etched with concern as they looked at her. Lyarra took a deep breath, then let it out.

“Your father,” she began, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

“He’s your father too,” Arya said.

“No, he’s not.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked quietly.

“He’s lied. All this time. He--he--” Lyarra took another breath, in and out. “I have to go. I can’t be near him without wanting to run him through with a sword, and its not safe here. Not for me.” Sansa and Arya both gasped, their minds reeling, and the second part when by.

“Why?” Sansa asked, her voice muted and soft. Arya looked like she was trying to talk, unable to get the words out as tears ran down her face.

“I’m not his daughter,” Lyarra said quietly, her voice still filled with rage. “Ask him about Lyanna,” she said, going back to saddling her horse. She mounted quickly, before someone could stop her.

“Ask him about the Silver Prince,” she said, wheeling her horse around. “And the lies of his war.” Then she kicked her heels to her horse and sped off, leaving the Red Keep behind. She raced through Flea Bottom, the up the hill and out the first gate she saw, pouring onto Rosby Road. As she got further from King’s Landing and the Red Keep faded from her sight, she slowed her horse, letting it walk and catch its breath. Her rage had cooled, no longer a burning fire but a long, lasting cold. Her mind turned from her father to herself.

 _Now what?_ Lyarra asked of herself. _Joffrey’s insane. The Usurper’s destroying the kingdom._ She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. _Think, Lyarra. Who can you trust? Who would refuse to betray you?_ Lyarra’s eyes widened, and she smiled for the first time since her false father began to speak. She urged her horse into a trot, making her way north along the road.

 

When night fell Lyarra decided to camp a good ways away from the main road, on the opposite side of a hillock, overlooking Blackwater Bay. She was trying to sleep, willing her mind to relax when she heard horse hooves nearby, voices with Northern accents.

“She can’t have gotten this far.”

“Really? Have you met Lyarra? She was born on horseback,” a familiar voice snapped. “If she kept riding she could’ve made it to the Dun Fort.”

“Whatever, Jon. We’re heading back.” Lyarra heard hooves turning, voices shouting curses, and then the hooves running, growing softer and softer in the distance.

“Where are you, Lya?” the familiar voice asked, voice desperate. Lyarra moved, slowly up the hill. She saw him looking around, like he might give up.

“Hi Jon,” she said softly. His head whipped around, turning towards her, eyes widening.

“Lyarra!” he said, dismounting and walking towards her. “Where the hell have you been? Your father’s been worried sick!”

“Good,” Lyarra said bitterly. The Smalljon recoiled at her tone.

“Lya, what happened?” She sighed, and walked towards him, looking up into his eyes. If she couldn’t trust him, who could she trust?

“I found out who my mother was,” she said. Smalljon’s eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes turned empathetic.

“She’s dead?” he asked softly. Lyarra nodded, throat tightened, unable to respond properly. Instead she leaned onto Jon, wrapping her arms around him, feeling him do the same, encompassing her in his larger frame. Her tears fell onto his surcoat, but he didn’t seem to mind, his hand running through her hair.

“Who was she?” he asked gently. “If you want--”

“Lyanna Stark,” Lyarra said softly.

“What?!” Jon exclaimed. He stepped back, his eyes wide. “Your--Eddard--”

“No,” Lyarra said, her voice quiet but unyielding. “Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen. Wait,” she said, seeing he was about to start talking. “They--She went willingly. Wanted to. They were married, Ser Barristan told me.”

“Why?” Jon asked, his voice living up to his normally ironic epithet. “Why would she go with him?” Lyarra snorted.

“She was betrothed to the oaf on the Iron Throne,” Lyarra said. “He may have been more attractive then, but he managed to father three bastards during their betrothal. She didn’t want to be in Cersei’s place.” Jon sighed, sad.

“I take it he didn’t tell you,” he said.

“No. Prince Oberyn and Lord Gargalen figured it out. They were trying to get him to tell me. Ser Barristan came in, he was supposed to fetch Lord Stark. He heard some of the conversation, and decided to tell me the truth.”

“What now?” Jon asked. “If you were told at the Red Keep--”

“It’s only a matter of time before the Usurper finds out,” Lyarra said, finishing his thought. “I know. And you’ve seen this royal family. Robert’s drowning in alcohol, whores, and feasts while the kingdom drown in bandits and debt. I overheard most of their conversation. The crown’s over eight million dragons in debt.”

“WHAT?!” Jon exclaimed. “How could one even get that far? Does he use gold chamberpots?”

“I don’t know,” Lyarra said, unable to keep a small smirk from forming. “But it needs to be fixed. And gods know his son isn’t the one to do that.”

“Boy’s a madman,” Jon spat. “Heard when his brother’s cat was pregnant he cut it open.”

“Gods,” Lyarra said, recoiling. She shook her head. “Look, this just proves what we’re saying. We need a new ruler. Viserys, by all accounts, is a madman as well, and he died recently. Daenerys, if she survives the Usurper’s assassins, hasn’t been in Westeros since the day of her birth.”

“You’re raising the banners?” he asked, a tone of worry in his voice.

“I have to,” Lyarra said. “Not yet though. For now I need to convince the Royalists I’m real. Get them to start preparing. When Dorne finishes its civil war, we can count on them too. They want revenge even more than their own blood on the throne.”

“Then I’ll go home,” Jon said. “Our loyalty was never to the Baratheons, it was to the Starks. There’s very few in the North who won’t fight for Lyanna’s daughter, especially once they know the truth.”

“Please,” Lyarra said, looking up at him. “Take my sisters--cousins--with you. They, the Red Keep won’t be safe for long. Lannisters already making moves against the North.”

“I will,” he said. Lyarra rushed to embrace him, her arms tight around his middle, a few tears falling onto his surcoat once more.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She stepped back. “May the old gods keep watch over you.”

“And you as well,” Jon said, mounting his horse. “I won’t tell your father, don’t worry. I’ll wait ‘til I’m back home to spread the word.” Lyarra smiled, and watched him ride off, back towards King’s Landing. Her eyes watered as he rode away. _Gods willing, there will be a place for both of us when this ends_ , she thought as she walked back down the hill and curled up near her horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I'm not terribly happy with the Lyarra section. She honestly recovers and accepts who she is far too easily, but I don't know how else to write it without adding fifteen chapter that are mostly filler, which I don't want to do. It's unrealistic and probably OOC, but this is what I'm doing.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
